You Don't Have To Walk Me Home

A story about love, loss, and madness.

You Don't Have To Walk Me Home

“You don’t have to walk me home.”

“Yes I do.” He stood on the porch beside his love, both watching the scattered leftovers of a rainshower fall onto the sidewalk. His love rolled his eyes, then smiled, and they held one another close for a few moments.

“Better get going then. Mom will have a fit if I’m home late again.”

“Fine, fine, let’s go.”

They walked down the driveway hand in hand as evening mist began to roll down the street. It smelled of summer, and of rain; it smelled, he thought, like sleep, and then wondered why he had thought that. He allowed his love to guide him around corners and up neighborhood streets, following him. Sometimes his love was a few feet ahead, and sometimes he was there, beside him, their bodies close. He felt lost in the mist, and was glad of his love’s guidance, for it was as if everything had disappeared; were it not for the steadily decreasing evening light, he doubted that he would know what time of day it was. It felt as though the fog crept through his mind, blanketing everything.

“You walk so slow!” his love said, smiling. His sweet voice was loud, and seemed to echo as if they walked among cathedral pews. Any sound was magnified in that quiet, humid air, and it felt almost wrong to speak, to make any irreverent noise in the stillness. He nodded and smiled back, walking faster, aware of the slapping of his shoes on wet concrete and the lighter patter of his love’s feet. His love moved like a dancer through the fog, as if he were a part of it, fading in and out.

The fog thickened as streetlights flicked on, and the numb detachment in his mind grew. Part of him worried at it, but he quickly silenced his concern, somehow certain that awareness, reality, consciousness were painful, and that it was wise to enjoy his dizzy detachment while he could. After all, it would be a long walk home.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” his love half-whispered, quieter now as it grew darker.

He shrugged.

“We live in a good neighborhood. I don’t know why you have to walk me home every time.”

“Who knows what could happen?” he said, after a pause, and his own voice sounded distant and strange, almost cracked. His throat was dry. When was the last time he had a glass of water? He couldn’t remember, and although he knew that was strange, he let it go, let the concern slip away into the fog.

His love laughed, and looked at him, smile glowing and eyes shining in the purple-grey light of dusk. “Do you really worry?”

“About you? All the time. What if I lost you?”

His love smiled again, but he saw uncertainty flash across brown eyes. “You never will. I’ve told you that. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I still like to walk you home.” Something twisted in his stomach, but disappeared quickly.

“Well, I’m glad you do.” His love squeezed his hand, soft palm wrapped in a fog as thick as cobwebs.

They walked together in silence to the top of the street, then turned left, and they had arrived. He had walked it a thousand times, but tonight it felt new, bigger and ill-proportioned. It was the fog, he told himself, and the weather. And he was tired. Oh, he was so tired. When had he slept last? He remembered sleeping beside his love, hearing his soft breaths, feeling his warmth, but it seemed so long ago. Last night? No, he had walked his love home last night, as he had the night before, and the night before that. He shook off the feeling, knowing he could sleep when he was home.

“Well,” said his love, and they paused in an island of light beneath a streetlamp as the sea of fog and darkness rolled around them.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice sounded feeble and petulant in his mind.

“I love you too, baby. Text me when you’re home, okay? It’s almost dark out. Don’t get hit by a car or anything.”

Anger rose up from deep within his stomach, for no reason, and he wondered why. He banished it quickly, and leaned forward to kiss his love, whispering, “And now who’s worrying too much?”

“Shush,” his love replied, and swatted at his chest. “Have a good night. Don’t forget to text.”

“I won’t,” he said, and then his love was gone, melting into the fog and the darkness, out of the dim orange glow of the streetlamp.

I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. His words tumbled over and over through his mind as he turned around, and began, slowly, to walk down the street. His love was gone, and he missed him already. He could see him tomorrow, he knew, every day he could see his love. That was how it was, and how it always would be.

He saw the shapes in the fog begin to move, languidly at first, as if stretching after a nap, then faster, rushing around the edges of his vision. He remembered them, and knew that they were here for him and no one else. They were going to hurt him, try to kill him, he was sure, and he had come prepared. It was worth it, it was always worth it, to be with his love.

He began to run.

His legs were sore, and his side hurt as if bruised. The fog in his mind cleared as fear and determination rose, and he knew that he had done the same thing last night, and the night before that. The thin soles of his worn shoes slammed against the concrete, crack, crack, crack, in time to the repeating words in his mind.

I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.

Won’t what, he wondered. The memory was already gone, and he didn’t try to find it. He ran, letting terror and fear and pain take over, driving him onward, down the street. The world was illuminated in sickly orange flashes as he passed under the streetlamps, then plunged back into darkness. They followed close behind, warming up, dark muscles rippling, catching his scent. One of them howled, then another, and soon they were all howling or screaming or laughing. Sometimes a muzzle brushed his thigh, or a wing flicked at his ear, teasing him, prodding at his terror and savoring the scent of his desperation.

The first one bit his leg as he jumped over a fallen garbage can. He tumbled to the pavement with a cry, then rolled, and jumped to his feet again, ignoring the shredding pain in his calf. He turned, and saw them at last, a river of dark things pouring down the hill toward him, some bounding, some galloping, some soaring. Dread froze everything but his pounding heart, and his legs shook, and he was truly, deeply afraid.

He took one down with his blade, and carved another from the sky as he dodged a swinging claw. He didn’t know where the blade came from, and he didn’t care, just continued hacking at the legion of dark things that assailed him. There were too many, he knew, far too many for him to face alone, so he ran and turned, ran and turned, killing a few at a time. His leg burned and itched, and he could feel blood soaking the torn leg of his pants and slicking the soles of his shoes. His arm bled now too, and the side of his head. Pain slowed him, and it felt as though the fog itself clutched at his feet, trying to drag him back into the frothing pack of nightmares.

You don’t have to walk me home, his love said, and he laughed, a stretched, broken sob, for he could see his love in the fog ahead, darting in and out of the misty tendrils that played about the sidewalk, nimble small feet carrying him about with a grace and ease that he had always envied.

I won’t forget, he thought, and kept running, running, harder, harder, with fire on the soles of his feet and sweat sliding down his forehead and neck, as if the fog were condensing and trying to drown him. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. The words were the ticking of a clock, the beating of a heart, the rhythm of lovemaking. Over and over they ran through his head, pausing every time he turned to cut down a few more.

A block away from his home, as he rounded the corner and saw the driveway, he fell again, and something broke with an angry, splintering, tearing sound. He screamed then, and was surprised again at the echoing volume of his voice. It was cold now, and he was soaked, with tears or sweat or the fog that splashed around him, lapping at his face as waves caress the sand.

He raised his head, and waited for the things to finish him. He glared and wept as they bounded toward him, the scent of blood making them mad with angry lust. A wolf leapt off the sidewalk and slowed, walking closer,, deliberately, hungrily closer. He could feel the click of claws on the asphalt, then the padding thump of a great grey cat’s paws, and the tearing-paper sound of some bird banking, diving, and slowing to hover over him.

He looked at the beasts as they drew slowly closer, then stopped in a ring around him, watching, waiting. He kept his eyes open, and tried to stand, but fell once more. The ground was cool and damp, and nothing he had ever felt was quite as comforting as that frigid surface of rock and tar beneath him. He reached out a hand and pulled himself forward, toward his house, toward the porch light, toward home and rest.

I

Won’t.

I

Won’t.

I

Won’t.

They were slower now, those words, but still a steady rhythm as he lurched painfully across the ground, expecting at any moment the searing agony of a tooth or talon or beak across his back. Forward he inched, arms scraped, vision blurred. Forward, as the light grew closer and and brighter. Forward, as the cold and fog dissipated and the warmth spread through him.

There was darkness then, for a few moments, and then light again, a glow under a door. He was in his room, lying on his bed, clothes filthy and torn and blood pooling on his sheets. The dark things were gone, and the the mist, and he was alive, somehow. He felt it all slowly fading, and found himself wondering why his pants were torn and where one of his sleeves had gone. Then the question was gone, and he didn’t care anymore. It didn’t matter. Nothing really did.

“I. Won’t.” the words came from his mouth, from his throat. He was confused, for a moment, and then remembered. He pulled a phone from his pocket, typed on the screen, and then dropped it to the floor with a sigh. He rolled over, wincing as he leaned on his arm, and then fell, finally, asleep.

# # #

The old man poured the last of the water in the watering can into a vase of flowers. He looked around and grunted, satisfied. All the flowers were watered, the grass was carefully cut, and the tool shed was locked up for the night. His knees groaned and creaked and he swore as he stood, then regretted swearing and apologized, in his mind, to all who rested there.

The rain seemed to have stopped for now, and a fog was brewing, climbing the hill and weaving about the spiked fence-posts. The old man walked past angels and men, their eyes raised to heaven or lowered in grief. He saw obelisks and arches, grand pillared headstones and tiny, foot-square plaques resting lower in the earth than the roots of the grass. New graves, old ones, fancy ones and plain, they were all his to tend and he treated them all with equal respect, nodding as he passed those belonging to people he had known in life.

One of the fresh plaques glowed for a moment, and he heard a soft buzzing sound. His forehead creased, and he walked slowly to the plot. The glowing emanated from a cell phone resting atop the small engraved rock, screen spotted with raindrops. Its battery was almost dead, and as he bent over to look, he saw words on the screen, in little text bubbles, the same message repeating probably twenty times.

Made it home. Sorry it took so long, guess I do walk slow. See you tomorrow?