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"I don't know why, but we were watching shitty horror movies."
For the hundredth time since the SATs, Alfred had had that dream again, the one where he and his brother, Matthew, had been sitting in their dark, tiny living room with the dog and a giant polar bear attacked them and tore them to shreds. Before, the two had agreed it was stress that was causing these dreams, but now they were just kind of stumped.
"Shitty horror movies? The old kind or just the shitty quality kind?"
Soft of voice and pale of appearance, Matthew Fitzroy was a sharp faced French boy with gentle blue eyes and a light smile, as well as Alfred's half-brother. His body was thick, a tall, largely built boy dressed in high-waisted, dark blue jeans and a soft blue button-up the color of the sky overhead. The paleness of his hair added to his blurry appearance, an apparition of a man who roamed under crystal bouts of cotton clouds and piercing blue lengths of backdrop, barefoot on grass the color of sickness spread over beauty. The tree, dark and looming, shielded the two from the sun's angry, festering glare, a cool mirage in the expanse of heat.
"Well, both. Bad acting and bad quality."
Alfred himself was the spitting younger image of Matthew, if a flare of energy and brightness had been lit within him like a wildfire, whereas Matt had merely the soft flickering of a white candle illuminating his frame. Al was shorter than Matt by half a foot and thinner in his physical build, but what he lacked in brutality he made up in expression and gestures. He moved and acted as a performer might, filled with enthusiasm and liveliness unrivaled by the harsh, beating sun or the gentle, sweet breeze that blew in from the south. His thin figure was, although layered with the merest muscle that aided his physical defense, shrouded in a red tee-shirt with a slashed logo across the front and loose shorts of bleached blue that hung about the knees. Hair nearly the same shade as Matthew's, a tad brighter, as if borrowing some rays from the sun, was wild and in disharmonious disarray, although falling back away from his crisp eyes that drunk in everything like the ocean's hungry tide.
"What kind of movie was it? Frankenstein? Dracula?"
A few second filed between them, a quiet spell of a car passing by, rubber rolling on asphalt, distant laughter of neighborhood children and squeals accompanied by the scent of city water, a scent that took a few degrees of warmth from the shade.
"Dracula, I think. There was a huge, old castle on a hill, and lots of lightning on the screen."
"That sounds more like Frankenstein. Y'know, because that guy used lightning to bring that dead guy back to life."
A single nod of golden haired head, blink of deep eyes, and a soft laugh of amusement, almost singed with strain, came from the haul of his throat. Al's legs folded Indian-style, leaning his forearms on his knees.
"Yeah, yeah. But does that even mean anything? What do you suppose it means?"
More momentary silence, quieted voices from the cal-de-sac, watery scent still strong and alluring in the summertime air, now joined by the recognizable aroma of sunscreen.
"Huh.. I'm not really sure. I mean, Frankenstein was a monster-"
"No he wasn't. He was the-"
"Oh, yeah. He was the doctor. But he brought a guy back to life. We were being killed. Maybe there's a connection there."
A stretch of thoughts were threaded between them, another car, louder voices with the bass of an older tone, a dog now barked closer to them.
"I guess so. But I also remember there being a woman on screen at one point. She looked really scared, y'know?"
"That was probably the bride of Frankenstein." A funny laugh, genuine in its humor, fell on the blazing air. "Maybe you're going to meet someone special, Al." Matt's thick arm bent into a V, nudging the elbow at his younger brother before dropping it, sweaty and warm and flushed. Too hot for joking. "Got any money, Al?"
A pause of surprise with the pull of his mouth in a type of confusion. "No, I don't have any. Why'd you think I do?"
"Yeah, you do, don't you? I thought dad said you got that job with Ms. Chavez mowing her yards."
Strike. A sharp blaze came to the blue pit of Alfred's eyes, a lightening of color, azure lightning stabbing fiercely across his face, hardening of the cheeks, eyebrows, as if this fiery slash had frozen him into this mask of unpleasant memories. Indeed, he had been given the job at Ms. Chavez's house across and down the street, however, the thought of that house filled him with a terrible clashing of dread, fear, and uncomfortableness. Some images floated to the top of his mind, a dark interior filled with the scent of kerosene, bleach, sugar-coated candies in their glass dish across the floor like candyland's night. Dark, wrinkled flesh was dry and scratchy on his own, and the overwhelming flavor of plums and mint flooded the back of his tongue. Down cast head, closed eyes, and the entire vision faded like fog spreading across the morning fields.
"No, I didn't. I'm going to have to find somewhere else to get money for the Arthur Blackthorn concert."
Instead of the lonely, cold house that stood like a mausoleum down the light gray road, the poster in his room hung in his eyes, the one with Arthur Blackthorn screaming into a tilted microphone, all bound and decked in leather and chains with red plaid hanging around his waist, haloed by the rest of his band frozen in the midst of playing drums and guitars and keyboards. The song they were performing backtracked in his mind to his favorite part, the part where the guitar solo started and Arthur's voice came from the bowels of wicked nirvana. The song always gave him chills and made him want to dance and sing along, pound fists and rock bodies.
"You better. I'm not going to this concert alone.."
The quality of his brother's voice made Alfred smile, nudging the other in the shoulder with his loosely closed fist.
"You know, you could take a girl with you. What about Sesel, the exchange student? She doesn't know you're an awkward fuck yet, right?"
Al and Matt both knew how socially awkward Matt truly was, struggling with words with people he didn't know well, that common panicky feeling when going out somewhere new. Alfred knew better to poke fun at his brother for it, and he did regret it as he noticed the falling to Matt's expression, a dropping of softness to a hard and familiarly painful place. A frown found his own face as he let his clammy hand rest on the shoulder he had just assaulted.
"Sorry.. I mean, it's going to be great! Imagine with me, Scotty on drums, Jack on lead guitar shredding it up, Brice on bass, and theArthur Blackthorn singing and screaming that music mom hates and we love so much! It's a double win, Mattie!"
His smile, although half false, was large and goofy and desperate to be sincere, still holding his sweaty hand on the other boy's shoulder. Silence. The kids' voice were gone, and the strong smell of fire and meat cooking soon made Al aware of his hunger.
A mumble came from Matthew, gentle, laced with an emotion that made Al's heart clench up and hit the bottom of his stomach like a rock, then stood and made his barefooted path back to the glass door of their house, disappearing inside to leave Al alone in the sweltering day.
A small breath of a sigh, eyes closed as his back hit the tree and slid him down to the grass, heel of the sweaty hand pressed to his forehead. Every feeling of negativity punched soreness into him as his other hand pressed to his head, over his eyes to keep the stinging down. He knew better than to bring that up. He knew better! From experience alone he knew better than to have said that. God damn, why did he say that? Matthew had been struggling with this for how long now? Shit, did he feel like the hugest asshole on earth.
He continued to sit under the tree for a while, listening to the road as a few more cars passed, the children's voices never returning yet being replaced by the soft, entertained voices of adults went along with the burning and cooked barbecue smell. The presence of the house down the street crept every bad emotion to the front of his mind, choking him with guilt and shame and sadness, yet eventually, as the sun sunk down into the crimson, orange horizon, as did these feelings. Once to a state where he knew he could face his household, he pushed up on his grass-stained knees, feeling the achy-ness pump through the tendons and muscles of his legs. The grass was now cool and dry like sand on the beach at night, caressing blades on the soles of his feet, trading this for rough concrete as he mounted the stairs, glass door showing his face, adjusting it from its sadness to a neutral, tired mask, cold, brass door handle in his hand, aching in on rolling orange-red carpet.
The evening outside shifted to dark blue oceans with swinging stars blinking for their missing halves.