Elijah

A short story. It is a little on the dark side, as the main character struggles with severe depression. I didn't know what to call it, so that title may not be the most fitting. Apologies.

   Eli jumped awake sweating, his alarm clock blaring next to him. He slammed the “off” button and held his head in his hands; the echo of the beeping still screamed in his head, reminding him intensely of the gunshots he so often heard in his dreams. Shoving back his covers and trying to forget his too familiar nightmare, Eli climbed out of bed and started to get ready for school. In the kitchen of his family’s apartment, he could hear his mother hurrying to get ready for work, already late.

He heard the door slam, and his mother was gone. No goodbye. No “Have a great day at school!”. Nothing. He tried to remember the last time he’d had a conversation with her that lasted more than five minutes. Throwing his books in his backpack and grabbing his car keys and money for lunch, he headed out of the apartment and to the parking lot.

He maneuvered his car through the busy streets, the radio delivering the daily news in a monotone: how many murders in the past week, neighborhoods to stay away from, updates on the war. The broadcaster delivered the news as though he were reading a grocery list. As he reached over to turn off the radio, movement in a passing alleyway caught his eye. Eli slammed on the brakes as he heard a woman scream. Jumping out of the car and running to the alley, he barely had time to see a tall man running away, holding a woman’s shirt. Turning into the alley, Eli saw the woman that had been attacked lying on the ground, shirtless and sobbing. Eli pulled off his sweatshirt and moved towards her slowly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. Here, take my sweatshirt. I’m gonna take you to the police station. I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you okay?” He stopped five feet away from her, holding out his sweatshirt. The woman continued to cry, not looking up. Moving closer towards her, Eli lay the sweatshirt in her lap. He stood for several minutes, staring at the sky and the passing cars, waiting for her to move. As her crying slowly stopped, the familiar silence of city cacophony was all that was heard.

“Thank you.”

Startled, Eli looked at the woman, who was now wearing his sweatshirt and brushing hair out of her face. She was dark haired, with a pretty face bearing an expression of trauma.

“Oh…you’re welcome. Do you want me to take you to the police station?”

She stood shakily and leaned against the brick wall of the alley. “Here, let me help you,” Eli offered, holding out his hand to her. She nodded, and he led her back to his car.

 

Inside the police station, officers glanced warily at Eli as he filled out forms. Finally a detective approached him saying,

“Son, shouldn’t you be in school at this time? It’s 9:30…”

Shocked, Eli checked the time on his phone.

“Well, yeah, but I was on my way and saw a woman being attacked,” he replied. “Do you have, like, a note you could write for me? To excuse my tardiness?” The officer smiled.

“I’m sure something can be arranged. Finish filling out your forms and then be on your way. Education is very important.”

“Thank you. I know.” Eli rubbed his wrist, feeling exposed without his sweatshirt.

 

   Eli pulled into the high school parking lot and shut off his car, cutting off John Lennon in the middle of “I Feel Fine”. Taking a deep breath, he headed into the school.

He slid into AP History, and, trying to go unnoticed, shoved his backpack beneath his desk.

“Mr. Massey!” His teacher called out. “Where were you for the first half of class, hm?”

Eli could feel his classmates turn to look at him. He slid down in his seat, his face red.

“I was�"“

They would never believe him.

“Well?”

“I…I saw a woman being attacked on the way here and stopped to help.”

“Mr. Massey, I’m being serious. I expect better from you.”

Angry, Eli ran his hand through his auburn hair and scuffed the floor with his skateboarding sneakers. He shoved the note from the police station into his pocket and rubbed his wrist.

“Now, as I was saying,” his teacher resumed. “We will be spending the rest of class working on your projects. Get to work!” The kid in the desk next to Eli’s swore under his breath.

Ten minutes later, Eli found himself staring at his notes on the Civil War of 1822. He glanced at other kids’ projects: the assassination of the President in 1998, the War of Allies in 2017, the Crisis of Human Trafficking in 2034. Eli kicked the leg of his desk. Why, he wondered, don’t they talk about it anymore? When it happened, it was everywhere. They swore it would be taught in schools, swore it would be remembered.

Then it all came crashing back: the horror, the pain, the loss. He tried to stop himself from remembering, tried to push it away, but he couldn’t. His ears were filled with the sounds of screaming and gunshots; his heart raced as he remembered running. Panicky and terrified, he put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noises that were coming from inside him. It was hard to breathe, and he couldn’t hear his teacher yelling his name, or the kids laughing and swearing in confusion.

They don’t know. They don’t care.

The thought repeated over and over again, blocking out the sounds of gunshot and screaming. Breathing heavily, he lifted his head to meet the eyes of his classmates. The room became instantly silent, the mystified looks of the students telling him all that he needed to know. Eli stood, took his backpack, and left the room without a word. He ran through the halls, not stopping for anyone who called his name or any teacher who told him to go back to class. Reaching his car in the parking lot, he got in and slammed the door shut. Pounding the steering wheel, it all came out. He was well-acquainted with the tears that coursed down his face and soaked into his clothes.

It played out before his eyes for the thousandth time. His feet pounded the shiny, waxed floor of the middle school. Running. He heard a familiar voice calling his name: his nine-year-old brother. Turning. Samuel reached out to him, calling, “Elijah! Help!”. Hearing. The man appeared from his brother’s classroom, shooting; his brother falling to the floor, bleeding. Seeing.

The tears were unstoppable now, and Eli hated himself for it. More memories surfaced.

His bedroom door opened and Samuel crept in, only seven at the time. He said something, which Eli had always assumed to be, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”. But he hadn’t been able to hear him that night. His parents’ yelling covered every other noise that was made. Eli got up, led Samuel to his bed, and locked the door. At eleven, he was smart enough to know how to protect himself when his parents were drunk. Very late at night, the front door slammed shut. He hadn’t seen his father since.

Eli desperately began searching for something to take away the pain. Another memory found its way forward as he did.

Eli, now fourteen, an only child, and fatherless, sat in his room, alone and crying. He could hear his mother and her boyfriend in another room. He knew he didn’t want to know what they were doing. He had, in his hand, a razor blade that his mother kept in the kitchen for opening packages. With a last glance at his locked door and his heart pounding, he brought it to his wrist. That was the first of many times.

Hitting the steering wheel one last time, Eli gave up looking for anything with which he could induce the familiar, relieving sting. Blinded by his tears, he forced his keys into the ignition and pulled out of the high school. Driving home, he could barely see, yet he didn’t care. At seventeen, he had lost his will to live. Somehow, he found himself in the parking lot of the apartment complex. Eli stumbled out of the car and into the building. He didn’t hear the surprised “Elijah! Hello! Why are you home so early?” of the doorman, or the “Eli! Come play with me!” of his neighbor’s toddler. Eli entered his apartment and collapsed on his bed. He could only form one cohesive thought: What’s the point?

Author's Note

I wrote this for a school project, and we were supposed to come up with a timeline for our story. The historical events concerning Eli's school project were supposed to be fictitious; none of them are real events.

Reviews

[Auria]

Wow. This was a really great read. The whole thought of the story....the flow, it stayed together. There was no branching off of anything that...wasn't related to the plot. I was captivated the whole time. For a school project you really put a lot of work into this. Great write and well done.

~A