- Brandon's POV -
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Dinner was a strange affair. I found myself craving pasta, so I fixed some and ate it in a daze. I tried to wrap my mind around the events of the day, but it was hard when several voices were arguing inside my head.
You seem to have a physical and probably emotional link with Taylor, one reminded me. So what are you going to do about it?
A different voice interjected its opinion. For one, that’s ridiculous. This sort of stuff only happens in sci-fi novels. Not to perfectly ordinary people like 20 year old graphic designer Brandon Pecorano, who is not special.
And yet it happened, the voice I claimed as my own said. I saw it.
Well, what are you going to do about it? I imagined the first voice crossing its arms. You can either ignore it and both live possibly the rest of your lives with an uncomfortable link, or you can get together with her and figure out how to dissolve the link.
I sighed. “But what if she doesn’t believe me?” I asked the chair across from me. “What if she thinks I’m crazy?”
Just give it a try. If a voice could shrug, the voice would have shrugged. The worst possible scenario is that she thinks you’re a creepy stalker, in which case you should avoid her at all costs so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable serving you in the mornings.
“I guess,” I agreed. “Yeah, I guess. That doesn’t make me want to do it, though.”
I mean, I suppose it won’t be the end of the world if she thinks I’m weird, I thought.
Suddenly, I was struck by a large amount of fluttery butterflies in my stomach. Again. I rolled my eyes. It was getting pretty annoying, this whole probably-feeling-Taylor’s-emotions thing. I tried to ignore the excited adrenaline. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was up to. Who was giving her butterflies? When I was struck by the immense anger, why was she angry? Did the link work both ways—did she feel my emotions as well?
“Poor thing if she does,” I muttered, taking a bite of pasta. The butterflies were so fluttery I could hardly eat. “I’d hate to go through that.”
Hold up. I blinked abruptly. That phantom stomach ache, I wondered. Was that…cramps?
“Holy crap. I wish I’d never made fun of girls for being weak.” I shook my head. “Never gonna do that again.”
A thought struck me, like lightning. I’m glad Caroline never had to go through that.
A voice somewhere in the back of my head cursed me for thinking of her. That always brought an unwanted flood of emotions.
At the same time, I wanted them to come. I’d hidden her away after she died, believing that if I erased her from my memory, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Filling my life with clubs and pursuits helped dull the pain.
Pictures flashed through my head.
The butterflies were gone.
The memories of Caroline came to me slowly, then all at once.
I let them.
Caroline, 8 years old, before the leukemia, laughing as I pushed her on the swings at the park. Her auburn hair flying behind her, her eyes alight, her smile bright. We had so much fun together.
Caroline, still 8 years old, fighting with me, this time her eyes sharp and intense, insisting that she was right. She was always so headstrong.
Caroline, 9 years old, crying in my mother’s arms when they told her she had contracted leukemia.
Caroline, her beautiful hair too thin to keep. They shaved what little was left. Her little head looked so lonely without it against the white of the hospital bed.
Caroline, 11 years old, curled up, crying because of the pain. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. It hurt. I was 13.
The thoughts took a different turn now. I didn’t want them to, but I let them anyway.
Caroline, a few months away from being 12, lying in a small coffin in my grandparents’ church. We had nowhere to go, no church to call our own, so we held the funeral there. No one should have to make small coffins.
A year later. My old room, the blackout curtains covering any bit of light that could have come in. I quit Rec League soccer, finding no purpose anymore. I felt like I had no purpose. Life had no purpose. Why live when I had to live without Caroline?
Crying in my bedroom, alone. No one ever heard me. Everyone always knew me as a happy kid, so I never let them see the part of me that wanted to die.
My mom used to get migraines. One time I almost took a handful of her painkillers. One time. It would have been so easy. Nothing mattered. I almost did it. Something stopped me. But I was close.
What would have been Caroline’s 16th birthday. I went to Mom and Dad’s house. We all had cake and cried together over her.
The memories blended together, fading and whirling into a blur of emotions. So I cried.
I cried because I missed Caroline.
I cried because I was confused.
I cried because I was weak.
I cried because I was afraid of my own feelings.
The sobs shook my shoulders and I let them.
************
I rolled over in bed. “What day is it?” I murmured. I blearily glanced at the clock. Oh yeah. Sunday. No work and too much time.
My digital display clock read 8:45 am. I’d slept in. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My head throbbed slightly. I groaned. Headaches were never good, although thankfully I rarely had them. To be safe, I had stopped keeping painkiller on hand when I moved out, so I always had to endure headaches when they came.
I had a hangover from crying and felt overall pretty terrible. Maybe a shower will help.
My shower was long and amazing. The hot water did make my head feel a little better, which was good. I let it cascade over my face as I absorbed the heat.
After my shower, I looked at my schedule. “Oh yeah,” I told the cereal, “I do actually have some things to do. Volleyball tonight”—a friend had texted me yesterday to schedule an impromptu game—“and a chess club meeting this afternoon. Fun.” At least I had things to occupy my time. I needed to be busy. To forget things for a while.
I decided to work on some color pallets and sketches during the morning. Turning on my favorite game soundtrack, I lost myself in the colors and strokes.
When I finally realized I was hungry and looked at the clock, it was 1:27 pm. “Wow. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” I fixed myself a sandwich, not feeling like making anything big. Chess club was at 3:30 pm. I still had some time.
Wonder if Taylor’s at Starbucks? I idly took a bite of my sandwich. What if I went and approached her about the…connection? She’d probably think I’m stupid. But I guess if she’s there I can at least ask if she’s experienced the same things I have.
It was a stupid idea, but I wanted something to keep my mind off of…emotions. My resolve strengthening, I scarfed the rest of my sandwich and investigated my sketches. I winced. Oh dear.
I’d drawn a sickly grey being surrounded by smoke, its eyes sunken and full of despair. It was wispy and thin around the edges; its fingers were long and skinny, the nails chipped at the edges. Its arms were wrapped around its body.
I hadn’t drawn something this dark and depressing in a very long time.
“I don’t want to go back to that,” I whispered. I tore up the drawing and put it in the trash.
Shaking my head, I tried my best to forget about what I’d drawn and instead took a look at the color pallets. They looked good, with a few patterns thrown in as well. I put them on my desk to stick in a folder for later. “Okay Brandon.” I straightened my glasses—I didn’t want to wear my contacts today—and gave my hair a run through with my fingers. “Time to go talk to Taylor. The random barista at Starbucks that you have a psychic link with.” I barely contained a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Grabbing my shoes, I slipped them on and walked out the door to my car.
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(do you ever just)
(*screams*)
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