An old man lay in bed, the chill of death, the peace. He had always known his end was going to come at the cold of the season.
He grasped his tattered book in his quivering hand. He knew full well this day would arrive someday, somehow; still, he was deeply proud of what he had achieved. His life had been fulfilling: a beautiful wife, a perfect daughter. He had lived long enough to see her marry and have three children of her own. He had even watched two of those grandchildren grow up. It was the kind of life many hoped for, though he regretted that he would not live to see his great-grandchildren.
His eyes strayed to the window where the snowflakes puffed delicately from the sky. Part of him wanted just a little bit more time, but he knew in his heart it was also time to go home. He looked again at the journal and laid it beside him.
He turned his head toward the door and called softly, "Hello, is there someone there?"
In an instant, the old man had his youngest grandson enter into the room. "Grandpa, do you want something?"
The old man could only smile. He was 18, but reminded him of his younger self-a capable young man with all life ahead of him. He wanted the best for the boy.
"Sonny," he spoke in a weak tone of voice, warm enough. "My time is just near."
The young man's eyebrows shot upwards in concern. "I'm going to call Mom and Dad," he said urgently. "The family needs to be here."
"There, there, boy," the old man giggled softly. "Before you do that, do me this after I die." He reached for the journal resting on his chest and handed it to the boy. "Put this with the rest of my stuff." He handed it to the boy. "I don't need it anymore."
The boy looked at the journal with a sad expression. "You've had this for most of your life."
"Yes, but it served its purpose," said the old man in a soft and serene voice that sounded as if he was boasting of his achievements. "Go call up the rest of your family for us to give our last respects."
The boy nodded and ran to call his family. The old man turned back to the window, a contented smile on his face. He had everything he wanted. Now, all he had to do was wait for death to come and gently carry him away.
…
MC (Micheal Conner) stared at the blank paper in front of him, the looming deadline taunting him with his no-brainer thoughts. The title "Careers and College Choices" seemed simple enough; that was the problem-just too simple. Yet his pen still hovered uselessly above the pristine sheet, a physical manifestation of his mental paralysis.
His eyes strayed to the ceiling; its peach-colored paint bore witness to his discontent. What once had been bright, even gay, now seemed to leer at him in its faintness. Cracks spider-webbed across the surface, like the fissures in his mind. It was no different from what was inside him: colorless, emotionless, reflecting the hollowness in his center.
A closet full of dark, plain clothes screamed "emo" to the outside world, though MC had never consciously cultivated that image. It was just easier to blend into the shadows, to become invisible. Various shades of black, gray, and navy that matched his mood and helped him fade into the background of high school life were typical of his attire.
His bed was dressed only with a gray sheet and a dark green patterned blanket thrown over a lone white pillow. The jarring contrast of the white pillow against the darker bedding seemed almost to be a metaphor for the small glimmer of hope he still clung to, despite everything. The bed was always neatly made, not out of any sense of tidiness, but because MC rarely found comfort in sleep.
With his eyes back on the thin desk, MC had confronted him with the bleakness of life: it was a desk that had come down from his father but had been marked with years of use, each owner leaving some initiative through their initials and doodles, some of which became reminders of their times. Equally gray, like the future standing in front of him, with the blank sheets of paper begging to be marked with ink for stories-to-be-written and, for that matter, even plotless.
Other professions had long since died, and he was adrift in a sea of indecision. As a child, he'd fantasized about being an astronaut, a veterinarian, even a rock star. But those aspirations had faded, worn away by the harsh realities of life and his own growing sense of inadequacy. Now, he couldn't even remember what it felt like to be passionate about something.
Skirting the introspection so obviously called for, he listed top colleges; Summit Ridge University went at the head of the class. The name alone conjured images of ivy-covered buildings and students engaged in lively debates. But to MC, it was just another place where he'd likely feel out of place. For careers, he scrawled "good-paying jobs," a vague cop-out to fill out the assignment. He wasn't blind to the irony of half-assing his future.
A sudden rustling shook MC from the chair, the unanticipated noise destroying the heavy silence in his room. Standing in the doorway was his little brother Maximus eyeing a box of long-forgotten comic books. Maximus was what MC was not: smiling easily, oozing charisma from every pore. Where MC seemed to fade into the background, Maximus commanded attention.
"Hey, MC, mind if I take this box over here?" Maximus gave his winning smile, the one that won teachers and classmates over. MC had simply developed an immunity to it over the years.
"Go ahead," he shrugged, turning to stash his folder. "I bet it will be nice to have a new owner." The words came out more bitter than he meant, a seep of resentment he felt at his old passions.
Maximus picked up the box, smiling. "Don't you worry, they're in good hands." His enthusiasm for the comics was palpable, reminding MC of a time when he too had felt that kind of excitement. And with that, Maximus left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving MC to his open expanses of evening.
"What am I supposed to do till bedtime?" he whispered out loud to the empty room. "I did all the things I was supposed to do." There was no answer. The resulting silence was oppressive, the soft ticking of the clock on his nightstand being the only break in the stillness.
Self-hatred nibbled at his insides as he stretched his legs-the satisfying pop of joints was heard. Calling his therapist was the first thing that came into his mind, but he had seen them yesterday and didn't want to seem as if he'd already fucked up. The thought of admitting his continued struggle filled him with shame. He was supposed to be getting better, wasn't he?
"I'm hungry," he said out loud, startled by the sound of his own voice. The words seemed to bounce off the walls, emphasizing how long it had been since he'd spoken. Even this simple bodily need felt like a revelation, a reminder that he was still human, still alive.
The mission given, MC proudly marched into the kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The house was silent, holding its breath, it seemed. Therein lay his mother, frowning while staring at a letter, an intensity in her eyes that made MC's heart stop a beat. The kitchen, the place of warmth and comfort, was now charged with unspoken tension. That one sight, and a shivering feeling ran down his spine-a premonition of change over the horizon.
"Mom, is something wrong?" he asked in a barely audible voice. "You have been staring at that letter for some time. Is it something serious?" The questions hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of potential consequences. MC found himself holding his breath, waiting for an answer that could potentially shatter the fragile equilibrium of his life.
MC's mother looked up, her eyes wide as if she hadn't noticed him there. The kitchen light cast shadows across her face and outlined the furrows of concern that had been etched over the years. "Oh, it's nothing to do with us," she answered quickly, though her tone spoke volumes. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the corner of the letter she held.
MC was curious but said nothing, not wanting to press the issue. "Okay, Mom," he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper. The tension in the room was palpable, like a thick fog settling between them.
He opened a cabinet; the hinges squeaked softly. Inside, he found a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and jelly-the holy trinity of quick, effortless meals. Not a proper dinner by any means, but he was too tired to make a proper dinner. The idea of cooking sounded like trying to scale a mountain.
MC opened the bread case to get one as he turned, catching sight of his reflection on the microwave door: he was as skinny for a child of his age as anyone skinned alive by life could get. His shirt-a really huge hoodie-could have swaddled another little child inside, upon him. He'd always imagined that when he'd have huge muscles with wide shoulders and good biceps, but that didn't come. And it was his fault.
He had always wanted to go to the gym, maybe gain some muscles, but had never mustered up the courage to enter such a place. The very thought of being surrounded by fit and confident people made his stomach churn. He had not even tended to his overgrown hair, which fell in messy waves before his eyes. He must have looked like some homeless guy, he thought with bitterness. To be amidst people was a suffocating feeling, like trying to breathe underwater. And he knew he deserved that, all of his suffering. He really just didn't want to be here anymore. "Michael Conner," his mom's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, bringing him back to reality. "Are you having those dark thoughts?
MC turned to his mother almost immediately, her face a mask of concern. Her eyes, so much like his, were wide with fear and love. His hands were shaking, he noticed-the bread was trembling in his grasp. When had that started? He jammed them into his pockets, shame heating his ears and creeping up his neck.
"Okay, Mother," he said, snatching up what he wanted for a sandwich with fake casualness. "It's nothing, just deliberating on how I'll spend my evening." This tasted terribly foul in his mouth as the lie came off his lips.
His mother then looked him up and down, her eyes traveling from head to toe, before giving back, "You know mother is here?" very softly, nearly imploring.
"Of course," he said, turning his back on her to hide the emotions threatening to spill across his face. "I always know that." He just did not want to be a problem to her anymore. She had sacrificed so much for him.
He knew he had made his mom's life worse when he begged her to let them move. She never said anything, but he knew she was sad about dropping everything to move to White Rock. The guilt always gnawed at him-a relentless ache in his chest. At least she met Ron, who had Maximus, but his thoughts said otherwise. A small, selfish part of him resented the happiness she'd found.
He made two sandwiches, the motions coming one after the other, automatic, lifeless. He put them on a plate, looked at his mother. She stared at the letter again, furrowing her brow. It was a sight that made him feel uncomfortable, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
He couldn't take it anymore. "Mom, is the letter about me?" The hunger he'd felt a moment before slowly disappeared into cold dread. "Is it from the therapist or from the school?"
His mother must have realized the letter was upsetting him. She set it down and crossed the space separating them, took his hands in her own. Her touch was warm, comforting. "No, Michael, it really has nothing to do with us." She set the plate into his hands, her fingers trailing a moment on his. "It's just that someone died."
MC flinched at the word 'died', images of his past trauma flashing through his mind. "Who was it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You don't need to worry about that," she assured, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Did you finish that 'Careers and College Choices' assignment?"
"Yeah," MC nodded, grateful for the subject change. "I was gonna study for a bit."
"You're such a smart boy, Michael," she rubbed his messy hair, a gesture which used to comfort him but was now vain. "I know good things are going to come your way."
Yeah right, he wanted to say. Nothing good ever came his way; if it did, he wouldn't be in this state. He bit his lip instead and nodded once again, tasting blood. He turned and headed for his room, each step heavier than the last. It seemed that he would spend the rest of his evening studying, getting lost in facts and figures so as not to think about thoughts that might just devour him.
…
Charlotte couldn't help but watch her son as he walked away, his shoulders slumped as if he was carrying something invisible. The sandwich on his plate-what she could hardly call a meal- seemed to mock her inability to help him. She wanted to do something, anything, for the poor boy. She'd moved to White Rock for him to have a new start-uprooting their lives in hopes of a fresh beginning. She took him to therapy to help him with his trauma and horrible nightmares that left him screaming in the night. She even tried her best to support him, attending every school event and parent-teacher conference. But it felt like he was never going to get better, like she was watching him slowly fade away.
She looked down at the letter she had been reading, then reached for another that lay beside it. The paper was crisp, official-looking. It was from Michael's teachers at school. They all concurred that Michael was a good student who received perfect marks, his intelligence shining through even in his darkest moments. But he didn't want to use that brilliance for his own future. Or for anything, for that matter. It was like he was just moving on, not living.
…
It was as if he still carried guilt for what had happened in their old town-the incident that changed everything, which stole the light from her son's eyes. She would be very much delighted to take all his pain on herself, absorb it, and free him from its clutch. But she knew this was his battle to fight. All she could do was stand beside him, a silent sentinel, and hope that someday she would see him genuinely smile again. Hope he would come back to his usual self-the boy who would easily laugh and dream big.
Till then, she had to wait-observe and worry. In a little while, she went back to the letter that was sent, more precisely, the contents that weighed upon her mind. News it was carrying with it could change everything, but she was unsure if Michael was ready for more upheaval in his life. With a heavy sigh, she folded the letter and tucked it away, resolving to face it another day. For now, her son needed her, even if he wouldn't admit it.
MC set the plate down on the desk, its chipped edge glinting dully in the faint light spilling from his bedside lamp. He stared at the sandwich-a sad little bundle of bread and filling-and made himself take a bite. The flavor was flat, almost nonexistent, but as he chewed, a wave of nausea rolled over him. He swallowed hard, his throat clamping tight against the intrusion of food. He needed nourishment, no matter how distasteful. The alternative-wasting away to nothing-was both appealing and terrifying.
His gaze fell upon the math textbook, its worn cover a testament to hours spent pouring over its contents. He drew it closer, his fingers tracing the embossed title. It was strange, this compulsion to excel academically when he felt so empty inside. Maybe it was his way of atoning, of proving his worth to a mother who had sacrificed everything for him. Or perhaps, it was only easier to lose himself in numbers and equations than to face the chaos of his own mind.
Opening to a page of exercises, MC began to work. The problems weren't challenging-he pays attention in class, after all. Numbers flowed from his pen with ease, belying the turmoil within. All people said he was smart, but intelligence could not mend what was broken inside of him nor erase the hatred from his old town, the whispers that followed him here. Sometimes, he wondered if it would be easier if he were stupid, oblivious to the weight of his past.
Before he knew it, the exercises were done, and so were the sandwiches. The brief distraction passed, and he was floating again. It was back to square one, back to the excruciating tedium that so defined his life. A harsh chuckle escaped his lips, the sound foreign even to his own ears. What a pitiful life he led.
"What are you doing, laughing by yourself?" A deep voice cut through his self-deprecating thoughts. "I know that you're not well, but that's a whole other level."
MC's lips twisted into a frown, not bothering to turn around. He knew that voice all too well. "Ron, you came home from work."
He turned in his chair to face his stepfather, not wanting to. Ron leaned against the doorframe, his huge frame all but filling it. His ginger beard, more gray than orange these days, obscured most of his face, but MC could still make out the look of annoyance in his eyes as they swept over the empty plate and exercise book.
"You're really a boring person," Ron grumbled, shaking his head. "I never saw a kid who actually studies."
MC's jaw tightened as he curbed a reply. He didn't like Ron very much, though he was also thankful that the man appeared in his mom's life. They were older and had a case of Sour Grape marriages in the background. It was MC who was being a problem; MC was just messing up their happy little familial bliss. His biological father had walked out before he was even born, but that had never been an issue until MC started to spiral. At least now his mother had someone to lean on.
"Do you need anything, Ron?" MC asked, hoping to expedite the man's departure.
Ron's brow furrowed, annoyance replaced by confusion. Then he let out a sigh; the sound grated on MC's already frayed nerves. "Your mother really didn't tell you anything."
MC's throat suddenly felt parched. "Tell me what?"
Ron opened his mouth and then seemed to think better of it. "Never mind, it seems like it will be better for you."
With that, he lumbered off. MC heard the TV click on downstairs, knew his mom would be making Ron's lunch so he could get back to work. But those were habits that seemed disconnected from the vortex of confusion brewing inside his skull. What had Ron meant? What wasn't Mom telling him?
His eyes darted toward the trash can, knowing that on a crumpled fold, the mysterious letter lay. His foot began tapping involuntarily, and his fingers ran through his uncombed hair. Nothing seemed to make sense: What was happening, and how was he involved?
"Mom didn't tell you anything?" Maximus's voice jolted him out. His stepbrother stood in the doorway, bundled like one ready to take on the cold outside. "That's weird, 'cause she told everybody."
MC's stomach did flips. "No," he muttered. "Mom only said someone died and it had nothing to do with us."
Maximus's eyes narrowed. "Nothing to do with dad and me," he corrected. "But it has everything to do with you and mom."
The nausea doubled. MC's eyes flicked to the trash can again, a lifeline if needed. "What are you talking about? I don't know anyone here except…"
The words died in his throat as a terrifying possibility dawned on him. He stared at Maximus, wordlessly begging that it not be the case. His stepbrother looked bewildered by his reaction.
"Who?" Maximus pressed, irritation creeping into his tone. "Is it someone close?"
MC shook his head, trying to push down the panic rising inside him. "Did mom tell you a name?" he croaked.
"Not really," Maximus shrugged. "But that didn't stop me from reading the letter." He paused, thinking. "The name was William, if I remember right."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. William. A name MC never thought he'd hear again, a ghost from a past he'd tried so hard to bury. But the past, it seemed, wasn't done with him yet.
"Are you not going to pack?" Maximus said, oblivious to the turmoil in MC's mind. "The funeral is today, and they want us over."
That was the straw that broke the camel's back. MC lurched forward, barely making it to the trash can before he emptied the contents of his stomach. As he retched, his mind whirled on. William was dead. And now, he was being dragged back to face everything he'd run from. The room spun, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. How could he possibly survive this?