When my neighbor woke up, I tried to ignore it. But some months went by and every night the light from his room would glare through my window. It got harder to sleep. I adjusted the curtains, switched beds—didn't work.
He never stops by, so I never have the chance to complain. Realistically, I don't know why he would.
It's a cool summer night that would be perfect for sleeping if it weren't for that light. I'm overtired and can't take it anymore, so I open the window and cross the roof—the buildings in this complex were practically built on top of each other, so a hop and a step up, and I'm on the other side.
He's in his room, and facing away from the window—my throat tightens. Maybe I should wait 'til later. But I take a breath, knock loud and fast.
He stiffens straight up then turns around and looks at me. He walks over, opens the window.
"Oh...wow. I... How are you?" He looks so worried. And its strange because he's chalky and bony now. His hair tangles over his skull, falling past his shoulders. He looks even weirder than before.
Funny, because mine hasn't grown an inch below my ears since the crash.
"Yeah," I say, "I'm okay. You—"
His face turns pink and he talks over his words, "I'm almost better—it shouldn't be much longer. They kept me in the hospital for ages already...I thought I was going to go crazy."
"You look like it." His words still sound so...detached. They put a bitter taste in my mouth.
He sort of laughs, then looks down. The silence is like those scratchy button-up shirts he used to wear.
"I just came over to let you know about your light. It's been shining through curtains every—"
He sighs, looking back into his room. "I'm sorry—it's my brother again. He can't stand having them closed... he doesn't like feeling cooped up. I tried to tell him, but..."
It's like someone punched me in the face. My mouth is numb. "Oh...it's fine," I manage to say. It's hard to focus. I reach out to shake his hand.
His face goes blank when he sees my right arm—prosthetic now . Of all times to use that one...
"I—I didn't mean to stare. I—you—are you okay? I...never mind," he takes a light hold and shakes it with a smile, "I'm glad you're still around. It's been, well...I've been lonely."
He doesn't know?
I nod, throat choked. He hasn't let go yet. A feeling of sickness chills me.
How doesn't he know?
I slide my hand out, then head back, "Night, Al." My face is feverishly hot and I can't stop my shoulders from shaking.
From across the roof, he wishes me a good night. But its hard to believe him; his brother's been dead for a year and a half.
By the time I'm back in my room, curtains closed, tears are welling in my throat. I unstrap my arm and hurl it at the floor. My knees are shaking—I can't take it. I scream, stumbling to rip the blankets off my bed. My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding...
I run downstairs, ram my fist into the wall. No feeling. Again, and again, and again until my knuckles are raw. Catch my breath for a minute.
What are you doing? Cool down, cool down. Stop it. I stomp into the kitchen and open the cabinet. As I reach for a cup, the anger surges and I swipe them all over. They tumble over as I drop to the floor, curl up, shaking. My face is wet. Pathetic.
His vague presence. Those ignorant smiles.
"I hate him," I choke. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him."
Even now, nothing really means anything to him. No one except his fucking brother.
Who the hell was I to think Al'd come back and things would be different? Who the hell was I to think that I would be rewarded—no, acknowledged—for trying to fix something that was my fault in the first place?
I slam my palm into the floor.
Even if all he does fucking care about it his brother, shouldn't he, at least, know what happened to my arm? The Rockbells up and paid for the thing—of course they would've mentioned it.
I sniffle. I'm hopeless.
He forgot. Of course, he forgot.
The waiting was for nothing. Nights on the roof watching his empty room, pacing in front of the hospital, holding my breath when the car would pull up, and chickening out when he finally was back... None of it mattered. I'm done.
I'll head up to the Drop-Off in the morning.
—
The doorbell wakes me up; I haven't heard it in forever. It's bright—morning, and I'm still on the kitchen floor. It rings again.
"Coming..." I croak and lift myself up. Not today.
It's Al. Of course it is. He's tied his hair up behind his head, and he looks a little healthier than he did last night—probably the sun. He's wearing that brown, bulky jacket Ed always used to.
He doesn't remember his brother's neck twisted out of its collar. On the other side of the truck, Ed's body laid in the dirt and needles until the night set in.
"Oh, were you sleeping? I can come back later." His eyes keep glancing down at the stump of my elbow.
"Uh, ehm, no," I clear my throat, "Why're you here?"
He pops up in surprise. "No particular reason. I thought, if you wanted to catch up..."
I should say no. Slam the door. Don't let him get you off-track now.
But some dumb part of my head gets the better of me, "I needed to pick up some stuff up today, if you wanna come along."
—
We're quiet most of the way. No cars zip past us, and the skies are empty. I keep wondering if he's noticed yet. If he still talks to his brother, how can he be aware of anything?
"Al, what do you remember?"
"Remember?"
"About the crash." It's easy to avoid eye contact now that he's so tall.
It takes him a while. "Some... not the crash itself..." it's like he's talking to someone else. "I couldn't remember anything for a while. But now—I can remember most of the day, up until the parking lot..."
A stab of guilt. I tuck my right arm into my hoodie. "Sorry," I mumble, and hope he doesn't catch it.
When we get to the store, Al shadows me through the aisles; it puts me on edge, but I'm already here so it'd be pointless to leave empty-handed. I pretend to browse. When enough time's passed, I walk by and grab a ring of rope. Then, to be safe, a portable flashlight, and start on my way out.
"Should you...pay?"
I shrug and keep walking.
Then he stamps towards me, eyebrows furrowed, and tugs the rope from my hand. He walks over and sets it on the register.
What does he think he's doing? "You do realize there's no—"
He looks me in the eye, "I returned it." His tone is sharp. Hollow.
It startles me. What the hell's gotten into him? I sigh and go outside.
Footsteps rush after me. "What do you think you're doing!?" his voice cracks. It echoes on the silence.
I clench my teeth; I'd never realized he's so perceptive. Acting like he didn't have a clue about anything, and now—damn, he pisses me off.
"Your brother—" the words jump out of my chest, "Your brother is dead!"
I shouldn't have said that. I really shouldn't have said that.
Al just kind of stands there. He doesn't look hurt, and then, with an air of tranquility, "In theory."
I freeze. What kind of bullshit is that?
"No, you're right," he almost grins, "I guess he is."
It's cold.
—
I walk further from home, but he keeps on following me down the street. Its the middle of the afternoon when we pass Farwell—it's the first time I've been back by here. The school looks even smaller when the parking lot's empty.
Then I realize that his last memory of 10th grade is probably being hit in the back of the head here, so I cringe I turn away down the nearest street.
Al lingers at the corner. Is he alright? I go a few more steps, but he doesn't follow.
"It's September already," I can't tell if he's talking to me, "and it's...Wednesday. Doesn't this mean we're ditching?" He grins.
"I'm not going back in there."
"You think I want to be going to school?"
I shrug, "'Careful what you wish for."
He rolls his eyes, "Just a peek. You coming?"
I glance over at the building; there's a reason I've kept it out of my head for so long. But Al's already started walking over, and I can't let him mess this up.
—
Inside, the lights are on and bouncing spitefully off the tile floors. Doors are propped open like its passing period, but there's no one around. Our footsteps echo—the lights buzz. I follow him down the halls for a while; I can't tell if he's looking for something.
"Did you have Biology Ms. Donogue?" Al asks me, glancing into a room.
"What?"
"Ms. Donogue...I'm pretty sure her class was down this hall."
"Oh, you mean Bio?"
He keeps walking. Towards the end, he enters another room, "Here it is!"
The class is familiar. I remember sitting at the lab table in the back corner with that phone buzzing over and over again in my pocket. The kid next to me kept looking over. I wasn't going to check it.
"The students were, well, as usual, but I really did like this class." Al's exploring the room now.
—
As each text came in, I got sicker to my stomach—I felt like such an idiot. But I couldn't turn it off. Don't mess with anything, I'd been told. I hated following the rules, but if I could endure for just a little longer...Then the teacher stopped talking and stared at me. It buzzed again.
—
"Did you like her?" Al turns to me.
I shrug.
"I had her for Biology 2. When we first moved in, she really helped me. Like, she let me stay in here and grade papers during lunch. Second semester, though, she said I better go out there and make some friends... I don't think she knew how nasty everyone could be. I had the same lunch hour as my brother then, so it turned out all right."
The scribble of a pencil. Mrs. Donogue's at her desk.
Al whips around, "Oh, hello, Mrs. Donogue!"
"Good morning, Al! I didn't see you there."
I'm nauseous.
—
Everyone started to laugh. Some jerk yelled: Who is that, your mom? And they laughed harder. Shut the hell up. My face was hot. The phone hadn't buzzed again, but they kept laughing. I tried to blow it off. They just did this to you if you weren't a local.
"Mommy forgot to pack you lunch?"
I knocked a binder off the table. Stood up, shouted that they better shut the fuck up. They were quiet when I left the room, but down the hall I could hear another eruption of laughter.
—
The lights flick off then back on—dimmer. Al's talking at an empty chair.
Relief. "You okay?" I ask.
He shakes his head, confused, "Oh—yeah, sorry. Just talking to myself..."
I say, "Let's leave."
His face is flushed.
Pulsing guilt—but I'm too anxious, "I've gotta get home. Come on." It comes out angrier than I'd meant it.
The light spikes on brighter.
Mrs. Donogue asks, "Who's your friend?"
Shit. Now there's mumurs, steps, movement in the hall. I need go, now. But he's coming with me, like it or not.
Al turns around. "Oh, he's a student here. This year, I think he'd be in 11th—"
The sounds get louder, louder. They're here. Shit, shit...we need to go.
She leans forward, "Who is he, Al,? I'm afraid I lost you there."
He pauses, stumbles back, "I—"
The room hits darkness again. Then fades back on, dimmer.
She's gone. He's pale.
"Come on."
He's frozen, eyes darting around. It hurts.
I maneuver my left hand out of my pocket—sticky—and hold it out to him, "We really need to leave." It's embarrassing.
Al looks right at me, uncertain. My eyes dodge away. I'd never actually do it, but I'm about to say that I guess I'll need to leave without him when he clenches my hand tight. Its warm. A little too big.
And so I drag him down the halls; empty, for now. Get outside, fast. Gripping my hand, he stumbles after me.
—
I remember my first day here—spring of 8th grade. People went silent as they passed me. At the other schools, I could slip under the radar without a problem. But at Farwell, no matter how well I managed to keep my mouth shut, no matter how far I pulled my hood over my head, they were always whispering.
The first week of English, I'd actually done a paper and got it handed back with a big "INCOMPLETE: 0/100" in red pen. The math teacher never let me check out a book.
One day I was followed home by a group of high schoolers with dark clothes and snarling faces. It was tough to control, but I didn't say a word back to them the whole way. The next morning, one approached me. He said they thought I was pretty cool—plus, I'd be in high school soon anyway. Turned out they were as fed up with this town as I was.
—
And then, somehow, it dawns on me; Al's real now. He's here—he's finally here. I squeeze his hand tighter. All of the waiting—it did matter. He's back. What he knows, what he remembers... it's not really an issue. It'll be just the two of us, and I can tell what he needs to know. I can't let this go again.
We're near entrance, and I can see something buzzing through parking lot. We get closer—it's a red Ford pickup, circling madly like a wasp. My stomach drops. Envy.
Al lets go; my hand feels empty and cold. His eyes widen. "Brother?"