Jocelyn- Swing Life Away

"We'll never be normal," I told Remy as he repacked my bag. "None of us."

"I know," he looked at me. "Doesn't mean we give up now."

I stared at my leg and felt my heart beating against my chest. "Yeah."

"Hey," he said, walking to me. "It all went bad. We all know that. But we lived for a reason."

I hugged him then, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He relieved the pressure on my leg, and I sighed. "You don't think they left?" I asked, my voice muffled.

"Nah," he said. "They have hot showers and beds. They'd have to be pretty dumb."

"You think Kenny made it back?"

He paused. "Yeah, I bet he did."

I nodded and we stood there, until finally he pulled away and smiled. "Let's get back then, shall we?"

It had been two days since the first night, and since then Remy has helped me walk on my leg. It was hard, and it hurt, but we had to leave soon and I knew that. So I gritted my teeth and dealt with it. Remy slung the bag over his back as we opened the entrance to the stairs that would descend to the rest of the building. Yesterday Remy cleared the building, which I protested. He wouldn't let me go with him in case he had to run. Luckily for him, it was completely empty.

It took a while for me to get down the stairs.

The streets were empty, surprisingly. Remy told me it'd be another three days until we'd be back to the hotel, if Ethan's calculations were correct. And if we didn't run into trouble before then.

"We're dead if we run into anything," I noted, and he nodded, not bothering to refuse.

"If we do, your best shot is to get away while I fight," he said, swinging his machete lazily.

I laughed. "No way. You'd die."

"We would both die if you stayed," he pointed out. "I'd have to worry about both of our asses."

"I wouldn't make it very far."

"Far enough."

I kept walking, fixing my eyes on the streets ahead of me. My leg would start acting up soon, so I had to get as far as I could until then. "So how'd you make it this far?" I asked him after a while. I could hear him walking a few feet behind me.

"I've had to live on my own for a while," he answered.

"Even before…?"

"Orphan."

Oh. I never really got the chance to miss my mom, since I didn't know her. I knew my dad loved her very much, though, and always compared me to her. I saw a few pictures, and I could tell that we did look a lot alike. I had her eyes, her complexion. My dad once said that my mother's eyes were his favorite part about her.

In a way I felt sorry for Remy and resented him all the same. He didn't have anyone to lose.

"Early on? Do you remember them?" I asked. I felt like I was prying, but I was curious. I tried not to think about the fact that at one point Remy had a mom and a dad, and that they had a home. I tried to picture them, tried to picture a woman with dark hair like her son's, a man with strange eyes.

"No," he said shortly, and I said nothing, Then, he sighed audibly. "Yes. I remember… I remember my mom." He spoke bitterly. "Never knew my dad."

"My mom, too."

"No," he said again. "My mom was a prostitute. She had sex with men for money and ended up having me."

My eyebrows knit together. "Oh."

"She died when I was five. Cops said she OD'd."

"Oh," I whispered, not really knowing what else to say.

"I don't miss her."

I looked back at him, and he was staring at the ground. His hands were shoved in his pockets. I fell into step with him, and though he didn't say anything, he noticeably slowed down to match my pace with my limp. "So you lived on your own for what, ten years? How'd a five year old survive on his own?"

"Got lucky. This band of thieves recruited me. I had spent my days stealing what I could and begging, and I guess they thought they could take me in. Told them I wasn't going to a foster home, and they agreed. Said they could help me. And they did. Police caught up to us eventually though, and we got scattered. Didn't see them again. By that time, though, I could hold my own. I traveled a lot."

"And when the disease struck?"

"That was the best and worst thing that happened to me. For months it was bliss. I knew where to raid, what to eat, how to survive. I was living better than I ever had in my life. Then the food ran out."

"You found us, then?"

"No, this was earlier. I joined another group with these four guys in it. They… they stole too, but from other people. Other kids."

I bit my tongue. Stealing from kids these days, from food to medicine, meant a death sentence.

"I hated it," he said, avoiding my gaze. "But I had to survive. They had never killed anyone… but I knew we might as well have. Then, one day, we robbed these two siblings, and the leader shot the brother for resisting. The sister was screaming and crying and the others were beating on her… So I shot them. All of them. The girl was in shock. I took all the supplies the group had and split them with her."

He swallowed. "Before I could leave, she asked me to help her bury him. I did and then I left. And after a few weeks… I found you."

We walked in silence then.

We took sporadic breaks every now and then, so that I could drink some water and give my leg a rest. It hurt, but not as bad as these last few days. Besides, I didn't survive ten damn months just to whine about a stupid leg.

Since we had stopped talking, I could hear what Remy heard for months. Complete silence. Except for the shuffling of our own feet, I heard nothing. It just wasn't New York. Remy must have caught on, because eventually he began to whistle.

I smiled and he nudged me. I shook my head.

"This is going to sound terrible," I said, looking down. "But I can't whistle."

"What?" he said, laughing. "You're kidding."

"No, really. My dad tried teaching me once but it was useless."

He laughed again and I closed my eyes. It felt nice, talking about a good memory. Something from my old life. I felt a little like me again.

"Sing, then," he said.

I could sing, though. Not as well as my dad. He used to sing to me all the time. My mom too, apparently. Once I watched a video of someone's wedding, maybe my aunt's, and my mom sang. Her voice was lovely.

"What should I sing?" I asked, looking quizzically at him. Yeah, I was good before. But I hadn't sung in ten months. My voice was considerably scratchy, probably due to the amount of dehydration and screaming that I do now.

He shrugged. "Something happy."

I cleared my throat, and sang:

"Am I loud and clear, or am I breaking up?

Am I still your charm, or am I just bad luck?

Are we getting closer, or are we just getting more lost?"

I paused, and felt strange in my heart. It was the song my mom had sung at the wedding.

I'll show you mine if you show me yours first

Let's compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse

Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words

We live on front porches and swing life away,

We get by just fine here on minimum wage

If love is a labor I'll slave till the end,

I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand

I've been here so long, I think that it's time to move

The winter's so cold, summer's over too soon

Let's pack our bags and settle down where palm trees grow

I've got some friends, some that I hardly know

But we've had some times, I wouldn't trade for the world

We chase these days down with talks of the places that we will go

We live on front porches and swing life away,

We get by just fine here on minimum wage

If love is a labor I'll slave till the end,

I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand...until you hold my hand

I'll show you mine if you show me yours first

Let's compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse

Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words

We live on front porches and swing life away,

We get by just fine here on minimum wage

If love is a labor I'll slave till the end,

I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand

Swing life away

Swing life away

Swing life away

Swing life away"

I finished, and my eyes flickered to his. I had always wondered why she had chosen that song, for a wedding no less. But then, long after that day, I figured out that my aunt had cancer. She passed when I was eleven, and I guessed that this song was for her.

For anyone, I guessed.

"You're a good singer," Remy said.

"So were my parents," I said, and my heart was beating quickly. I could see her now, see her in that video. There wasn't a moment when she wasn't smiling. Dad said that she was the happiest person—she could bring anybody up.

"How'd your mom go?"

"Car crash," I said. "It was pretty quick according to the officers. My dad said she was on her way home from visiting her sister. They guessed she was moving to turn up the radio or something—lost control of the wheel. Dad convinced himself that she died listening to her favorite song."

"Pretty easy," Remy nodded. "Luckier than most."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, she was."

"Why that song?" I told him the story about the wedding. I never had actually sung it before, but I had all the lyrics memorized like the back of my hand. Singing it made me feel like her—like I was there with her, or that she was here with me.

He began whistling the tune and I leaned into him. I hummed softly and closed my eyes and just walked, letting my head fill with music. Blocking out the sight of the ruined city, I imagined the true big city: cars, colors, and life. People hustling about. Kids skateboarding down the sidewalks, screaming out their dreams like everyone cared. Tattoos, piercings, lights, babies, couples, taxis, ice cream.

And for those few blissful moments, I could hear it all.

I could feel it all.