Divine Dirt Quarterly

“Last Call”

         

            “Nice day today.”

             The words were for no one.  It was just nice to hear his voice, to feel his mouth form­ing syl­la­bles, to taste his tongue caress­ing his tone.   Nor­mally he would argue he had a tenor sound to his voice, but the raspy tremor quiv­er­ing off his lips hardly sounded like a noise he rec­og­nized.  Like the voice ema­nat­ing from his mouth belonged to some­body else.

            His bed­room win­dow peered out into his front yard, show­ing off a snow-blanketed ground, his road lit­tered with slush.  A blue jay sat on the gnarly, crooked branch off a dead ever­green tree, peck­ing his beak at his feath­ers, hid­ing his small head in his puffed out, bloated body.  He didn’t know how long he spent star­ing at the bird, but any amount of time could never be enough.

            “It’s beau­ti­ful,” Chad real­ized, tightly secur­ing a rope to a pipe run­ning along the ceil­ing of his closet.  It was all beau­ti­ful because he was doomed, his fin­gers scrap­ing at per­fec­tion, like a sun­rise above the ocean.

            Because it would soon be over.  And he knew his last times were num­bered.  He wanted to hear his voice, to walk across the wooden planks of his floor, to see a bird bal­anc­ing atop a tree branch.  He wanted this bed­room, wit­ness to so many cold days and lonely nights, to remem­ber him.

            He’d refused to touch his neck for days, know­ing what was com­ing, not want­ing to back out of the deci­sion he already made.  But now, at what he knew was the end, he allowed him­self that small desire.  His fin­gers traced along the ten­der skin of his neck, his light touch mak­ing his skin squirm.  He yanked his hand away.

            “Almost ready.”

            More words.  They meant noth­ing, just col­or­less vapors of his thoughts. 

            He tugged at the rope, at the noose he had cre­ated as his mind wan­dered.  He thought of his fam­ily, sup­port­ive, but too immersed in their own lives to res­cue their drown­ing child.  There wouldn’t be a note.  He was cer­tain of that fact.  His rea­son, his mad­ness, was one that would fol­low him to the grave, hid­ing in the shad­ows of his cof­fin.  He thought of his friends, the hosts of the best years he’d ever known.  He smirked at the thought that their arrival began his life, yet iron­i­cally brought about its end.

            “Here we go,” he mur­mured, talk­ing just to hear his voice again.     

            “Fuck­ing cold!” Mike exclaimed at the sky, his eyes widen­ing at the grey clouds bil­low­ing along the hori­zon.       His hands balled into fists before he stuffed them in his pock­ets, his shoul­ders slightly hunched, fight­ing the wind.

            Chad smirked, always shav­ing off most of his smile when­ever in the com­pany of Mike.

            “It fuck­ing is.  Be nice to live in Florida right about now, huh?”

            “Yeah.”  The crisp air stung Chad’s eyes.

            Mike stomped on a small hill of snow, his sneaker press­ing into the white mound like it was powder.

            That was Mike’s way, fan­ta­siz­ing about the future.  The what if’s and would be’s that ran wild in his head always astounded Chad.  Chad always hoped for the future, but never looked past the next morn­ing.  Not like Mike, whose very grin built cas­tles in the sky, whose baby blue eyes wel­comed all that approached him with grace and understanding.

            Chad gulped, clutch­ing his fists, like that fierce action might squeeze out the taunt­ing thoughts that loomed in his head at the sight, the very men­tion of Mike.

            “You hun­gry?” Mike asked.  Chad knew this as an invi­ta­tion, a not-so-subtle hint that Mike was ready to eat.  Chad stole a glance at his best friend, watch­ing silently as the boy’s unkempt mop of dark brown hair whipped along with the wind.

            “Yeah.”

            It was a sim­ple answer, but Mike grinned.

            Just another tease.

            Another mind­less game.

            Another failed friendship.

            Always rolling on and on, desir­ing too much, hop­ing for too much.

            Chad would not let him­self get angry.  Not now.

            It was hard to explain to those that hov­ered along the edges of his life, to those that shared their days with him, of the lone­li­ness he felt.  He fiercely bit his lower lip and turned away, glar­ing at the ground and his snow-speckled shoes.  It was embar­rass­ing to admit the dev­as­ta­tion one wrong word, one care­less look could give him.  It was humil­i­at­ing to con­sider the way the sim­plest nuance, when com­ing from him was enough to get him flushed in the face.

           “But there’s really only one thing I want,” Chad spoke again to his empty room, already mourn­ing its inhab­i­tant, as he stared out into the beau­ti­ful Feb­ru­ary sun­rise.  Frost bor­dered his win­dow and glis­tened atop the roof as he took a step for­ward, breath­ing it all in, devour­ing the scene before him.

            The flat, mod­estly carved stom­ach, not the abs of a body­builder, just those of a boy in shape, made his stom­ach whirl. 

           Water trick­led down Mike’s body, as Chad found him­self strug­gling to look away, to ignore the large droplets drip­ping off his eye­lashes, the water run­ning down his tanned arms and legs. 

            “So, my date with Rachel is this week­end…” Mike brushed his hand through his sop­ping wet hair.  “Where do you think I should take her?”

            Chad almost smiled at the ner­vous shadow in Mike’s eyes.  His heart flut­tered and slammed against his ribcage at the men­tion of the girl’s name, at Mike’s vain attempt to appear unwor­ried and unboth­ered.  He looked away, his throat sud­denly dry.  Mike’s mind was on her again, on a lit­tle pink tank top, on long, sun-bleached hair, on fuchsia-colored toe nails.

            “Take her to a movie.”

            Mike winced.  “Kinda cliché, isn’t it?”

            “What’d you have in mind?”

            “I dunno…is grab­bing a pizza too casual?”  He reached for the light blue towel draped over a fold­ing chair and ran it through his hair.  He sighed, throw­ing the towel to the floor as he leaned against the wall, slowly sink­ing to the cement ground.

            Chad mim­ic­ked his actions, uncom­fort­able at the way Mike’s wet swim­ming trunks stuck to him, accen­tu­at­ing the trim build of his legs.  Chad grabbed a t-shirt and threw it over his head.  The sigh Mike released was hope­ful, ner­vous, exhil­a­rat­ing.  It breathed promise; it bred faith.

            Chad leaned next to him, the humid air of the indoor swim­ming pool draw­ing beads of per­spi­ra­tion to his upper lip even though he was hardly dry.  Their shoul­ders brushed against each other and they exhaled at the same time, Mike think­ing of all that lay before him, Chad of all that could never be.

            “What’d ya feel like doing now?” Mike mum­bled, flick­ing water off his legs and knees, sprin­kling the cement around him like a police sketch.  He laid his palm down onto the ground, his five fin­gers spread wide, his skin drink­ing in the heat from the floor.

            Chad reached for Mike’s wrist, his fin­gers gen­tly trac­ing the bone that pro­truded just below his hand.  He felt sud­denly sleepy, sedated almost, like he could feel his skin for­ever, like they could sit in the grow­ing heat, obliv­i­ous to the world as it spun care­lessly around them.

            He hardly heard the voice bring him back to real­ity, rock­ing him off the edge of a pil­low of clouds, land­ing him on the hard floor of the earth. 

            “Chad?” 

            His eyes fluttered.

            Mike was louder this time, his voice dan­gling off the cliff of laugh­ter.  “Chad?”

            His eyes snapped open with the inten­sity of a crack­ing whip.

            Mike stared point­edly at his wrist.  “I love ya too, man.  When’re we get­ting’ hitched?”

            Chad ripped his hand away.  “God.  Oh my God.  I’m…I’m so sorry, I don’t even know what the Hell I was…”

            “Hey, hey!” Mike raised a hand to silence him, ner­vous laugh­ter ema­nat­ing out of his throat.  “Joking.”

            “No, no, it’s not…”  Run­ning his fin­gers through his dirty blonde hair, he jumped up, quickly push­ing dis­tance between him­self and his friend.  Quickly shov­ing air in between them.  It was suffocating.

            “Chad, what the…?”

            “—what, Mike?”  He hadn’t meant to lose his tem­per, but sud­denly he was boil­ing and bur­bling out of con­trol.  Unable to close the pot on the volatile mix­ture he’d con­jured, unable to pour it down the drain, unable to take the poi­son him­self.  He sighed.  “Just leave me alone.”  He whipped his body around, ignor­ing the way Mike’s chest mus­cles tight­ened as he pushed him­self off the ground, ignor­ing the slight cock of his eye­brow as con­cern flashed across his face.

            “Chad.”

            He kept on walking.

            “Chad!”

            He could never tor­ture him­self so much as to leave while he called his name.  He turned back, his chest ris­ing and falling beneath his damp t-shirt.  He found Mike’s lips, gen­tly parted as he held his breath, rum­mag­ing through his head for the right words to say.  Next, he saw his eyes, baby blue and wide, search­ing Chad’s face, fish­ing for any­thing he could catch and reel in.  But noth­ing.  “See you tomorrow.”                                                                

            It took all he had to break eye con­tact and turn away, walk­ing from him like it would be the last time.

            It was so easy.  Too easy, in fact.  His heart thun­dered beneath his chest, protest­ing loudly at the crime he was about to com­mit.  His foot almost slipped as he stepped onto the stool.  When his quiv­er­ing body regained bal­ance, he faced out into his bed­room, at his closed door, his neatly made bed, his clothes neatly packed away in his dresser.  It was unchar­ac­ter­is­tic.  His bed­room had never been so neat.  But he didn’t want them to find him like this, dan­gling in his closet, every­thing thrown around on the floor.  The least he could do was pick up after himself.

           He slipped his head through the noose, his hands trem­bling as he tight­ened the rope around his neck. 

           Sun­light splat­tered through the window.

            He decided to count to three.  Out loud.  He wanted his voice to be the last thing he heard.  Not pan­icked gasps, not the unend­ing tick­ing of his clock.  Just him.

            The loud shrill of the tele­phone nearly made Chad lose his balance.

            Gasp­ing wildly, clutch­ing his chest to calm him­self, he stared wide-eyed at the room around him, at the world, the place he was about to leave.

            “One…” 

His swal­low came down hard, like a thou­sand knives punc­tur­ing his throat.

            “Two…”

            The phone rang a sec­ond time in the empty house, rever­ber­at­ing off the silent walls and empty rooms.  No one was around to answer but Chad.  Soon, there would be no one at all.

            “Three…”  His heart pounded in his chest, in his ears, in his fin­gers and toes.  He inhaled, air zoom­ing into his mouth like a vac­uum, and when he released, he watched his chest fall.  The phone rang a final time, but Chad, inch­ing his right foot off of the stool and into dead air, did not hear.

            In the next room, the answer­ing machine picked up.  Through the crypt-like silence of the house, the record­ing of his mother ask­ing the caller to leave a mes­sage burst through the walls.

            Finally, a warm voice cra­dled the still house, the quiet rooms.

            “Chad, you there?”

            Chad held onto the noose tight with both hands as he held his right foot out.  The left kicked the stool out from under­neath him.

            “It’s Mike.”

Car­o­line Cren­nan is a recent grad­u­ate of the Uni­ver­sity of Scran­ton, hav­ing majored in Crim­i­nal Jus­tice and a minor in Writing.