Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Saturday June 9^th, 2012

The scent of her lingered on my bed only until the next day when the doorbell rang. I knew my parents had gone on a day trip, so I forced myself from my bed and into a pair of shorts, and then slouched my way to the front door. Gene’s mother stood there, the brown of her hair reminding me so much of Gene’s. Her eyes held something new, a sort of oldness that replaced the kindness that had been there before.

“Mark, I’m sorry, I probably should have called last night when it happened,” She whispered, and I looked at her. Gene’s mother usually stopped by with useless tidbits of knowledge for my parents- they had been friends far longer than Gene and I had been. Then she spoke the words that stopped my life, ruined me forever.

Gene died at 10:56 P.M. on June eighth, 2012.

She had driven her car up to a four-way and stopped, then pulled out. As she made her slow, careful turn through the intersection, a drunk driver flew through his stop sign and hit the car head on. It was instant. She drove a small vehicle, and despite the seatbelt and the airbag, the frame couldn’t hold up against the large truck flying towards her at far over the speed limit. The man, unhurt, instantly called the police and an ambulance arrived soon after, but it was far too late.

You don’t cry over a girl like Gene. You mourn: the loss of a life, and the loss of something so insanely beautiful. The whole Earth seemed to lose it’s clarity that day. Colors faded, the sky dulled, and the birds didn’t chirp. Flowers drooped, animals hid away, and the sun wouldn’t shine. Rain banged against my window for ages, while I watched the shadows slide down my wall.

***

Everything in this world is amazing, when you get right down to it. If you can find me something that’s not extraordinary, I’ll give you a slap in the face. Because everything has a meaning, everything has a purpose; everything has a reason to be. Trees give us our oxygen, the sun gives us our light, and the stars give us something to wish upon. The smallest creature has a reason to be, a reason to crawl. Everything wants a purpose, and everything finds a purpose.

Humans seem to have the hardest time finding their reason, but everyone finds something they’re good at, something they enjoy. The one’s who don’t slip into a depression, and that is their purpose. Their depression gives others a contrast, without them you wouldn’t see how happy everyone else is. Theirs is a supporting role. A role they don’t enjoy, but a role nonetheless.

So, why, with all the purposes a human life could have- to beg, to inspire, to contrast, to lead- why do I have none?

***

Monday June 11^th, 2012

The light tapping on my door made me open my eyes, made me realize how much they hurt. The dripping, lazy shadows on the walls had stopped. The sheets I had never bothered to cover myself with were rumpled, flung to the side of the bed, and the pervading smell was that of teenage boy. I reached up and scrunched my fingers through my hair, stretching my hips and legs. I was stiff, my hair was oily, and I didn't care. There was no emotion, no feeling, simply blankness, like the dreary color of the light coming in through my window.

"Mark, can I come in?"

My mom's timid voice sneaked in around the doorframe. It was small, scared. I glanced at the clock and realized I had been locked in my room for at least two days. When was the last time I had eaten? I didn't care, my stomach didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. Nothing was alive, nothing existed, after all.

I didn't answer. The door creaked open anyway, and she poked her head around the door. I peered back at her, almost feeling the huge bags under my eyes. She looked exhausted; her own eyes small and her brown hair lying limply around her face. It was the first time that I realized Gene's death might have affected someone else other than me. It was a weird feeling. Nobody else had experienced the things I had experienced with Gene. Nobody else knew what it was like to crave her every waking moment, to want to touch her, to want to simply be able to look at her. Everyone else might miss her, might be devastated by the loss of her, but nobody else knew what it was like to have your whole world collapse, to have nothing to live for, to simply lose the urge to go on.

My mom's name is Melony, Melony Jennifer Marquise. Maiden name Michaels, born on August 18, 1967. To picture her as a baby is to picture her as she is now; small, weak looking, crumbling at the seams. She pushed the door open farther and walked in, sat on the bed next to my limp legs and carefully placed her hand on my shoulder. She has nothing to say, and I have nothing to say to her. She just stares at the ground, the perfectly clean carpet and the dreary walls. Then she stands up and walks out.

***

Up above the city are glass boxes. No one pays much attention to them, and there they sit. For as long as I can remember, they’ve been there. Held by invisible strings, tilted at angles so that sometimes you can see inside them and other times the sun hits them just right and everything is a wash of piercing light.

People live in them. They’re like floating condominiums. Clear, vibrant, and beautiful condominiums. Sometimes, when the sun isn’t bright and it’s close to sun down, you can see every detail. Clear, crystal carpet lines the floors, and delicate glass chandeliers hang from a sturdy glass ceiling. People can be seen, their noses pressed up against the glass, peering down. If you even look at the right time, you can catch their eye and they’ll wave. A calm wave, but somehow urgent at the same time. They just want you to know they’re there. But that’s really not necessary; we’re all well aware.

I swerve through street signs, dodging cars that are coming from all directions. A familiar figure is in front of the hood, but there’s no way to move, there’s cars coming from every way I look. And as she flies over the windshield, every slight touch her body makes against the medal booming in my mind, I look up at the glass boxes. There’s someone standing, pressed up against the glass, and their eyes catch mine. The mug, the man in the doorway, breathing in the same air I breathe out.