Fifteen

On my Fifteenth birthday my mom blindfolded me and pressed a pen into my hand. She told me that I could not leave the cold, hard ground I had been sitting on until I wrote out fifty words. Any words I liked. “Some day you will want to tell your story to someone. This is the best way to accomplish that. You haven’t read anything new in years. You need to practice writing new things to read. “ she removed the blindfold and I found myself across from a beautiful journal bound in black leather-textured plastic which was pulled taught over cardboard. The pages inside had thin black lines to guide my words. I began to write, eager to stand from the cold ground and hunt, and explore outside. After Rain vanished my parents limited my time outside to once per week and in my teenage haste I had let slip some unsavory comments which had earned me a month of being grounded, stuck inside. I yearned for the sun, moon, wind. I missed wind the most.  

I finished my fifty or so words and closed the book. It really was a beautiful gift. I looked up at my mom and smiled. “Thank you mom” I told her in earnest. I carefully placed the pen and book on my shelf and hugged her. “Now, don’t wander too far. I miss you when you’re gone darling.” Mom mumbled into my shoulder as she held me. Come to think of it.. she may have been crying.  

Her strength was enduring, but not impenetrable. That day I left the store and stared up at the broken sign above the door curious of the lost language above it. The curly shapes which seemed reminiscent of the letters I had learned, but not quite. I waved goodbye to the dark glass door. I remember when I was little and I helped my dad tear apart the shelves inside to create a metal barrier between the broken glass and the inside of our home. We boarded up every window, and every door with those shelves. For a time he wanted to create a safe room of sorts out of shelves. A space where we could all huddle together in a triple re-enforced box in a hidden, dark corner of the home. That project wasn’t ever completed. We think mom talked him out of it for some reason. Maybe she was afraid he was becoming too paranoid.  

 

I turned and left to go explore the nearby lot. Through the ice cold black asphalt grew strange trees which reached toward the orange dusty sky with gnarled, burned arms. A rat scurried up one such tree and down another. We farmed rats. We would set out scraps of old crackers or moldy leftovers. That attracted the already large local rat population. Now each time we got hungry, we only needed to come along and grab one. We would cook them into stews with the occasional bulb or root vegetable from dad’s garden.  

I pushed past the fence and took to the overgrown neighborhood across the street. The air here was putrid, sour, and strong. Rain, Still, and I and I used to run and play here looking for lost toys or new clothes to wear. A lot of the homes had been rapidly abandoned a century ago and were never occupied again. Well, they are occupied by a corpse or two. Mom says those are the people who couldn’t make it out.  

In the basement of one of these homes I found a little haven for myself. A comfy chair, a little table near it, and all the liquor I could drink. Whiskey, tequila, vodka, and rum. Gin, and old wines. And cigarettes horded by the thousands. And books, heavy and thick with words I couldn’t comprehend yet.  

I would sit on the chair, put a cigarette between my lips and pull. It tasted awful but it would make me feel like the coolest kid in the world. I would follow each puff with a drink. And by drink I mean I would wet my lips with the liquor and lick them. I don’t believe I ever had a swallow or lit the cigarette until I was shown how by watching an older man do so in my twenties. 

During this particular outing I nestled into my chair, sipped my whiskey and puffed my un-lit smoke and daydreamer about what the home above must have looked like. I’d stare at the posters of men on horses against an oddly blue sky. I’d imagine the life of a man on the back of a horse. Where would he go? Were there androids in his time? Did he also have to evade danger at every turn? My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking.  

My heart skipped at least two beats and I slipped silently out of my chair to the ground. Footsteps approached descending the stairs toward me. I held my breath and swallowed. Why do you always feel like you have to pee, yawn, or stretch when you aren’t allowed to move? The footsteps reached the ground and strode confidently through the dim space. It paused midway between the basement door and the chair. Could they see me? I almost wondered if they could hear my thoughts. “Come on. If you’re going to keep coming in here and drinking my alcohol you could at least clean up after yourself when you leave.” I buried myself into the shadow in the corner between the chair and the wall. The shadow covered me like a heavy blanket. There was an exasperated sigh followed by the steps of an individual collecting dirty glasses from around the space before retreating up the steps. I got the impression they were speaking to the room, not me. I waited silently in that corner for what I feel must have been an hour. Long enough that when I stood my calves squeezed and cramped. I knew then that someone would use that room before long so I grabbed a bottle of whiskey in one hand, tequila in the other, and shoved a pack of smokes into each of my pockets before attempting an escape.  

Eerily, when I made my way up I saw no trace of anyone. No new footprints in the dirt, no dirty glasses in the kitchen, no new breaks in any web. A strange, almost painful sensation crawled it’s way into my stomach. I’d never felt this way before. Small, and meek. I escaped to a home down the street and hid the alcohol and cigarettes in a plastic yellowing toy chest under a teddy bear and some plastic women. I shut the lid, stole for the window, and watched the street.  

As the wind picked up and the perma-fog of dust began to swirl with dark brown streaks of soot flying through I squinted to make out any human sized movement across the way. I saw nothing. Nothing, and no one.  

There was a feeling in my chest. It was heavy, and miserable. I didn’t know it then. But I think I wanted to be found. I pushed the thought from my mind. What good would it do me? I needed to think of other things. I lifted the dress of one of the plastic women and peered at the featureless lumps on its chest. A tingle rustled through my belly and down my legs. There was heat in my lap. I drew the blinds tightly closed and began unbuttoned my pants.