Young Writers Society

When all gold had turned to dust, needless filth floated atop the sky like something commonplace. It didn’t know it was low and dirty because they had put it in the sky. It was fooled along with everyone else. Fooled into a torment of eternity.

“Preston? Pres, where are you?’”

“I’m not here.”

“Am I - am I alone?” The girl in grey slumped to the floor and tried to disguise a sob with too much success.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Preston--his eyes bloodshot and his curly hair in dread locks--lay on his back on the creaking bed. The light was off because there was no power. There was no power because there was no reason for there to be power. At least no reason that Preston could think of.

“Why?” It was the only question she had left in her. She thought the world had answered all the others.

“Ana. Shut up.” He didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer, and he refused to admit that he was far from unique in that respect. Terror was an emotion that was not permitted. Not knowing was terrifying.

Ana looked like a girl out of a catalog; like someone had taken scissors to an advertisement for Winter savings. Those are the kind of girls that can’t be found because they are everywhere. Her stomach cramped and she squeezed her eyes shut. At least it couldn’t get any darker.

Preston had always liked pictures. Since he could remember it had been pictures that compelled him. Pictures of flies or pictures of cars or pictures of absolutely nothing. Real things reminded him of cracked sidewalks and sleeping outside when the apartment was too full of drunks to accommodate him. Reality was something to be avoided, something to be hated. And so he turned to things that he didn’t believe in for comfort. Pictures of families or pictures of pretty houses were shoved under his bed along with crumpled advertisements for things he could never afford. It’s dark when the pretty side doesn’t exist.

“Pres?” whispered Ana, biting her hand to keep from crying, but her teeth were too sharp to really help. The pain in her hand was now as bad as the pain in her dreams. She sobbed and couldn’t find any tears.

“I’m trying to sleep.”

“What did we do wrong?”

“We are wrong.”

Ana’s sobs worsened and Preston tried to imagine light. It had to be out there somewhere. He felt like his story was so worn that he was about to slip through the fraying fabric and vanish into a picture of nothing. It had happened a millions times before. There was nothing special about killing. Where was hope when there was nothing better to hope for? Preston thought he knew the end. Ana dearly hoped he didn’t.

After a length of time that mattered to neither of them, Ana crawled over to the bed and climbed up next to Preston. It was much too dark for him to see the bruises under her eyes. Bruises from a war that couldn’t be seen. When her lips touched his cold cheek he laughed to himself and rolled off the bed.

“Go to sleep. I’m too -”

“No! Please, Pres, please stay with me.” She sat up and reached out for him.

“I’m not here, remember?”

“Please,” she choked; dark pain making her dizzy.

“I want to die, Ana. I want you to kill me. Will you do it?” The curiosity in his voice was much too nonchalant, but she had no doubt that he was absolutely serious. Ana had no answer for him and so he fell back on the bed and crept closer to her. His breath smelled feral like his words. “Wouldn’t you, babe? Wouldn’t you kill me? Why not?” He paused, kissing her gently on the cheek. “At least I wouldn’t have to live to see the baby killed.”

Convulsively, she gasped and fell off the bed. “No! No! Shut up! It isn’t - it isn’t like that!” She knew she wasn’t making any sense but he only laughed and lay back down on his back.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m already dead, right? Been dead for a long time.”

She hated him for saying it. Hated him more than all the others. If life had no value why was killing so hard? It tried to tear her eyes out.

“There might be -”

“I know, I know. Someone might want it. But it doesn’t matter. There is no world for it grow up in--it doesn’t matter.” He had to believe it. If there was something light and pretty out there then he would have to be angry that he didn’t know about it. Who would he be angry at? It took energy to be angry. Easier to go to sleep.

“Where’s home?” Shakily, she climbed back onto the bed and into his arms. His skin was cold and slippery.

“Neverland. Dream about it, babe. It doesn’t exist.”

______

Morning threw its dusty fingers on the crumpled girl and boy who were no longer asleep--both wished they were. A light, slippery kind of noise came crawling under the door and through the window. The thing that Preston couldn’t believe in happened right outside his door.

“It’s Sunday.”

“Yesterday was Sunday.”

“Right.”

The girl got up, the bruises faded and her hair in a dark veil over face. She rubbed her eyes in mechanical circles and stared out the window. The sun was bright and warm and October seemed like it had forgotten its story and which way it was supposed to run.

“I have to - to go at ten. Will you--”

Preston wasn‘t listening, and thus felt compelled to pick up a broken picture frame off the dirty floor. “When I was eleven my mom tried to send me to Catholic School. I was already getting into drugs and she thought that maybe - maybe it would help. I remember the priest who taught religion class. He always wore Hawaiian shirts and funny hats and the kids didn’t like him very much. One day he told us about babies. He told us that babies were like kites that try to fly in a room without fans. He said they were impossible but they came anyway. And then he told us about how people kill babies. He told us that people forgot that babies defied gravity and that they threw them out like a kite on a still day. They forgot that babies could fly without the wind. I didn’t really get it then. But now I do. My baby can’t fly.”

Preston laughed a little to himself and then sat up. Ana slipped off the bed and held tightly to a stained pillow.

“I never liked doctors anyway. You can go it alone.” And with that, he slumped out of the bedroom and let the door fall closed behind him. Taking a deep breath, Ana dragged herself to her feet and walked in his footsteps through the door. The other room was bright in a dank way and Preston was drinking out of the milk carton.

“Pres…I don’t think I should--”

“Don’t think about it,” muttered Preston, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“You have to listen to me!” she cried, gripping the hem of her t-shirt desperately.

“It’s too late.” He dropped the milk carton on the ground and the floor was suddenly white again. She stared at him for a moment, clenching and unclenching her fists in agony. She wanted to ask him to help. Ask him for anything. But she couldn’t. Fingernails breaking against her palm, she grabbed the keys and half-ran out of the apartment. The door made a ringing blast behind her. Preston stepped into the spilled milk and got his socks all wet.

The apartment was deadly quiet but for the squelch of liquid polyester and Preston pictured something. He pictured a baby. A baby that could fly when the big people got out there scary weapons. And then he pictured Ana with a dead child resting forever on her chest. Dark rivulets of blood stained her pale skin and the cold metal of the operation table reflected a piercing sun.

He tried to run his hands through his hair and they got stuck. Mumbling something beyond comprehension, he slid to the floor into the cold milk.

______

It was nine forty-five and a dark heat settled amid smog and filth. A smell like tortured rain slipped into the head of a half-dressed girl in tiny shorts and a baggy sweatshirt. Ana glanced down at her white legs; they were shaking. Slamming the car door with little force, she stumbled to the tinted doors.

She couldn’t see inside and she knew that if she could she would likely walk away. It was hiding from her. Pres was right, it was too late. Shoving the door open, she walked into the killing place.