He spends the entire day in the mall, not window shopping or even enjoying himself. All he wants to do is avoid the heat. Nothing more. The mall is just as bad as dealing with the outside world. Children run unguarded, the girls talk too loudly and the boys laugh too freely. They think that it is all a safe haven. That is only a deluded thought.
There is nowhere in the world that is safe. These people don't remember that only eight years ago, there was a horrible accident in the mall. Yes, where these children play and girls and boys laugh, there was a terrible accident. No one speaks of it, that's why the place can remain so popular. He remembers clearly.
It is almost sad how quickly people forget. That was what Lowell's was – a place of forgotten memories. He almost laughs in the midst of his walk – comparing people to forgotten memories is nothing more than a fool's thought. He is a walking, forgotten memory. If only his English teacher could see him waxing poetry now.
But none of that matters. It is in the past. When the past is forgotten, it becomes nothing. It leaves nothing. He made a promise long ago to never forget. How could he? He knows what it is like to be forgotten, so how could he possibly forget? It is only logical.
So he hangs onto the past without the will to face it. There is nothing more tragic than that singular fact. This time, he doesn't bother to bite back the bitter chuckles. Some people scatter about him. It has always been that way. Don't touch the street rat. Don't get close. Don't even look at them. He laughs even as he makes his way home. The setting sun in the background does nothing for the heat creeping onto his neck.
All the windows are thrown wide open, but there is no sign of life in the apartment. The cigarette tray remains full on the coffee table. There are two unmade beds with the bodies of two pressed deep into them. A few soda cans linger on the kitchen counter – he can't even pretend that there are the same amount of beer cans on the counter top. All he can do is hope to God that Garry left to buy more booze. No such luck, of course. Garry likes to buy legitimate items.
The entire place is in disarray from two bachelors living together, yet there is no life in this place. He curses aloud, soft at first, then becoming harsh. There are no cigarettes. He knocks a not completely empty can to the floor. There are no cigarettes. He slumps into the couch, letting his clothes, sticky with sweat, cling onto his body. There is nothing on TV and still no cigarettes.
Nighttime, and there is a flash that blinds him momentarily. Then he remembers that he fell asleep, irritated and still pissed at nothing. The lights turn off just as quickly.
"Sorry,"
"Do you have alcohol?"
"What?"
"Did you buy some more alcohol? On your way back?"
"I can't."
"Cigarettes then. Did you?"
"No, why would I?"
"Turn on the fucking lights. I can't talk to you in the dark." Garry stands guilty in the hallway. "Where were you?"
"I just went out with a friend. Have you eaten yet?" Lies. Garry doesn't have friends. All he has are people that he smiles politely at – people that he pretends he likes and they like him back and no one is using one another.
But Joshua isn't his parent. Joshua isn't even a friend. So he stands up and closes the door behind him. His back aches lightly from sitting on the couch. There is a soft knock at his door – everything Garry does is soft and polite and gentle. It is pathetic. He ignores it. The knock persists.
"Are you upset with me?"
"No, I'm tired," Lies. Joshua is never tired. All he has two emotional settings: annoyed and downright pissed.
"Were you worried about me?"
"Go to bed." He plans to sleep quickly – if it was possible. He has always had trouble falling into sleep. One thought leads to another and he finds himself getting more worked up over nothing in the silence of the night than in the heat of the day. But the faster he forces sleep, the less terror he will hear from Garry.
"Goodnight," but tonight, Garry does not shuffle about the house. He does not hear the sounds of running water and creaking footsteps. He does not have to listen to the hesitant opening and sly shutting of Garry's door across the hallway. There is silence. And in that silence, all he can see is a looming forest tearing the land in half. There are no terrors tonight, so he should rest easy. He should. He scratches at his arms in a contemplative anger.
-x-x-x-
He doesn't beg. It isn't part of his nature, his genetic coding. Somewhere along the line of egg meeting sperm, the coding for begging and all those pesky emotions got cut off. Joshua isn't the begging sort. Rather, he bargains with a coworker to trade shifts and has another day off. The day starts off bright and early and he leaves as if he had work. He hangs with the shady crew, laughing too freely and talking too loudly.
He acts like a stranger in front of his own house to watch Garry leave, freshly clothed and faintly scented. He tries to follow, but becomes lost in a different part of town. There is nothing but high end stores and other rich-er people things in this area. It is the decent part of town. He spits on the white sidewalk. The art gallery was in this area as well. He forces his path to cross the gallery. He wants nothing more than to leave.
Luckily, it is closed. He watches, entranced as the paintings are loaded onto a truck inside of the closed gates. The cloth over once slips, and he recognizes it immediately. The Hanging Man, he read the title. He couldn't see the appeal of the painting at the time, which had Garry launching into a discussion of style and form and other artsy terms he had no clue about. It was just a disturbing portrait, but Garry's enchanted expression was more so. He had to physically drag Garry to see some other works in the gallery, but still, the boy gave a longing look to the painting.
There was nothing at all interesting about the painting. In light of the other works, it was even, to some degree, average. But when he saw Garry's eyes soften in front of the painting, all he could remember was warm vomit and the smell of cherry cough syrup. He grabbed Garry then and there, uncaring of the stares around. And there would always be stares because Garry was not an ugly looking guy. The smell of it made him sick. All he knew was that Garry could not look at that painting anymore. It was just too sickening. He could barely stand to see Garry's awe-filled gaze on such a horrid picture.
So when Garry asked if he wanted to return to the gallery, his usual excuse of having to work tumbled out on unsteady lips.
-x-x-x-
He thinks of the gallery, picking it apart with his mind. Perhaps, he becomes desperate in his thoughts, perhaps if I understand the gallery, I can come to terms with it. But still, the circles under his eyes grow. He smiles at the poorly hidden worry under Joshua's gruff disposition. Still, he lies in his bed, wondering if he can ever feel safe again. Why him? Of all the people, why was he chosen to go into that place? Mary wanted to be a part of Ib's family. Something about Ib made Mary very happy. So why? Why was he the sacrifice?
Something like anger rises and falls in him. He can't muster the strength to be upset. After all, he met Ib. That girl is the light of his life. He grins at the mere thought of her cute smile. But the joy vanishes quickly. He can't help but be affronted. Why was he chosen?
It had to be someone who wouldn't be missed. He has no family, but he has Joshua. If he was simply erased from the world – it scares him, this truth, but if he was erased one day, nothing would change. The world would continue on. Joshua would be the same surly man he was as a boy. If Mary replaced him – here, he lets out a cold shuddering breath – it would be perfectly fine. Maybe that's the reason.
He can't even imagine the sort of power that painting had. Could she have erased him? Something tells him that she could. He remembers a hazy awareness in front of a statue of a red rose. And for a moment, he had almost forgotten. If he hadn't seen the handkerchief on his hand and recalled her – he tries not to think of it. He would have held onto this fear with no rational reasoning for it. It would have driven him into insanity.
Leaving that world made him forget. Memories are so fragile. He wonders if that world could make anyone forget. He wonders if it can make everyone forget. If everyone forgot him – he shivers at the thought. That can't be the only reason. If it was, it could have been him or Joshua or any other desperate orphan visiting the gallery. This thought plagues him, more so than the terror of being killed. He can't figure it out: why him? Of all the people that visited the gallery that day, why was he chosen?
He hasn't told anyone. Not even Ib knows. But then again, he doesn't want to bring up anything from the gallery in their conversations. He has slept better, knowing that she is safe. But still, he doesn't tell. He only remembers. He can only rationalize. That world can alter memories, and also time. Once he had returned, only a few hours had passed. It felt like an eternity. He can only remember. He can only remember the eternity he spent there. And he can only wonder how time works, and why he had to spend so long suffering.
Because no one, not even Garry himself, knew how long he spent in that world alone.
