Young Writers Society

i suck at naming things...I've had my bird for four years...her name is still bird...

Victor Theodore Wilson has never felt such a combination of confusion, anxiety, and apprehension. He looks down at the cheap microphone that stands between him and his pair of close friends-Anita Vincent and Milan Moore. Anita shakes her head; her bobbed hair catches the light and shines like a coppery halo.

"We're not asking you to state your social security number, credit card information, and address. We only want the listeners to get a feel for your life. Where you come from. Where you want to go." She pushes her glasses further down her nose and squints at her phone studiously.

"Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe," Milan deadpans weakly. Victor glares at him sharply. "C'mon, Vicky, we agreed to this interview weeks ago. We shook on it. Pinky-fu*king-promise, mate. An unbreakable bond. Plus, you've the best story out of any one of us. Not to bring up any bad feels or anything, but she was your sister." Milan leaned over his cheap paper coffee cup. Knowing Milan, the contents were not likely coffee.

"Step-sister. I hardly knew her." Lie.

"Anyway. If we could just get some details, what you were doing, how you think the court handled it, how you felt, that would be great. True-crime podcasts are a big hit right now." Anita leans back and spins her phone on the table-top.

Victor looks down at his hands. Long, paint-stained fingers rip the napkin in his palms to shreds. He sighs, wondering at what exact moment in time he was destined to end up here, in a Waffle House, at 3 A.M., being interrogated over Lara's death, twelve years after the event had actually occurred.

"I was thirteen, Milan. I don't think I was capable of dwelling on it for long. We weren't very close." Another lie. He could remember perfectly how he felt, what thoughts raced through his head as he saw one of his most trusted allies lying twisted on the floor, like a broken puppet. Her pale face so contorted, he didn't even realise it was her at first. Victor swiftly inhales his own bitter, black Waffle-House coffee to avoid further questioning. Milan was starting to look too doubtful for comfort. Anita sighs and stretches her long legs, her feet kick the sticky plastic chair in front of her.

"Look, guys, it's been a hell of a day, and we're obviously not going to get any further with this, so I think I'm just going to head back to my place. My roommate yells at me if I wake her up any time before six A.M., be it on accident or not. Best to enter while I'm still capable of rational thought."

Victor nods and catches sight of his own dark circles in the reflection of the greasy plastic table. "I should be headed back too." He snaps his finger at Milan. "I've not the slightest idea what you've got in that cup, but I know I'm going to be driving."

Milan shrugs, hands over the keys, and stands up. He straightens his faded jacket as he turns toward the exit.

Victor starts after him, but pauses, hit with a wave of concern for his friend. He watches Milan's progress to the door, searching for any irregularity in his stride. He'd been drinking more lately, or at least enough to be troubling.

Victor rolls his shoulders, sighs, and follows his friend outside. The cold November wind buffets their coats as their shadows ripple across the orange street-lamp lit pavement. Traffic thunders softly in the distance. The smell of rain hits Victor's nose. Petrichor. He slips into the driver's side of the van he and Milan share. They worked out a carpooling agenda at the start of the term, with whoever using it at the end of the night had to pick the other up in the morning at their desired time. Works to save both their money and the environment, Victor figured. Now, he just hoped it could save someone's life. These days, Milan rarely seemed fit to drive. Victor glances at his friend. Milan is slumped low over his phone. The blue light dramatises his already-haggard features and reflects off of his cropped blond hair.

"You ok?"

Milan looks up. "Yeah. I'm fine. Why're you asking?"

"You just...seem different lately. Wondered what's up."

"This isn't about my drinking." It isn't a question. Victor keeps his eyes on the road and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The headlights throw shadows on the wet road.

 "It is. I'm worried about you."

Milan throws up his hands. "Look, you worry all the time. About everything. This is nothing, nothing is wrong, I'm fine."

Victor retreats, a bit stung. He reaches for the worn radio dial to break the heavy silence. 80s rock fizzles through the static.

Milan leans back on the fake-leather seat. "You can drop me off at my uncle's tonight."

"What about Katelyn-"

"She kicked me out," Milan laughs wryly. "I was 'never around,' I guess."

"Christ, Milan, I'm so sorry-"

"-She has a point, though. I am never a-round. I am a square."

Victor laughs, caught off-guard. This was the Milan he knew, making lame jokes in the face of unfortunate situations. The first drops of rain patter on the windshield.