Fast asleep, Gordo's dreams fluttered back and forth between his parents, school and Lizzie. She looked so beautiful, he pressed his mind to hold onto her image, but something awful would always happen to her. He'd reach out to save her, but it was always too late. That's partially why, when a resounding bang came from the front door, Gordo woke with a start, and a headache. 'Dad's home,' he thought. Still the question remained. Should he go downstairs and console his dad, tell him everything that happened? Or should he just go back to sleep? Or, should he just pretend like he knew nothing? Pretend the whole thing never happened. Push away that final image, of a moldering cigarette, lined with crimson lipstick, still lying in the ashtray downstairs. Push away from his mind that last sound to remember his mother by. The pound of the heavy oak door. The engine of her forest green Chevy, starting up and pulling away. Yet the time for decision making would come sooner than Gordo expected.
"DAVID," his father screamed from the kitchen. "DAVID!"
Without thinking Gordo threw the sheets from his bed and sprang onto the floor, dashing for the door and breathlessly running downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, he recomposed himself and tried to look calm and oblivious as he entered the family room.
"David, there you are. Were you asleep?"
Gordo looked at the clock. It was one in the morning. "Yeah dad, I was asleep."
"Of course," his father said, realizing what time it was. "Have you seen this?"
He handed Gordo a note, in script, his mother's handwriting. Gordo shook his head. His dad turned away, taking the letter with him, out of Gordo's curious reach. "Um, dad?"
"Yeah," he said distractedly.
"I saw her leave," he paused at his dad's desperate reaction. Yet this did not seem a time for words. "I, was here, in the family room," he paused again, considering how ironic that expression had become. "She was all dressed up, with make up, and-", he trailed off.
Looking forlorn, almost completely lost, his father looked up. "Did she, say anything?"
"Yeah. She said, she wasn't happy. And that I should stay here. That's about it."
"She'll be back," his father said, shaking his head. "She'll be back." He began making his way toward the couch, repeating this, his speech softening each time.
"Dad?"
His father curled up on the couch, nearly in the fetal position and closed his eyes. "She'll come back," he said, and then that same heavy silence filled the room. Gordo, backed away, then made a dash for his room. The first thing he could think of to do, was to call Lizzie. But this time, he would speak to her, like he used to. He would say, "I'm in trouble, I need help" and she would oblige, because she was his best friend. She would tell him what to do, or just listen. Without thinking, he grabbed the phone and speed dialed her house. "Hello?" he heard at the other end. It was her voice. He'd been lucky. Then he paniced. What if she got in trouble for being on so late? What if she laughed at him? He froze as she said, "Hello?", again. "Listen you weirdo, I can hear you breathing, so just say-", she spouted angrily. Cutting her off, he slammed the phone down and banged his head against his desk repeatedly. Why was he so stupid? Immeadiately he flung himself out of his chair and began trashing his room, scattering books across the floor and ripping posters from the wall. Then, just as he was attempting to rip apart his bed sheets and instead settling for throwing his dirty clothes from their hamper, he saw something fly from the pocket of his jeans, and glimmer as it hit the floor. Everything just seemed to stop. He stood, amidst tattered papers and a tarnished floor, watching the object sparkle. Throwing the pair of jeans he'd been clutching in his hands, across the room, he knelt down and lifted the shiney object from it's place on the carpet. A glint of intreague now sparkling in his eyes, Gordo knew what the answer was. It seemed so clear. So stupid, yet so plainly clear. Eyes now fixed ahead of him, on his swivel chair, he sat down, and put both his arms on his desk. He spread out his fingers watching each one move. The razor he had been holding, dropped down on the desk with a faint thud and an ambiguous shimmer. He lifted the object in his right hand and made a miniscule insition on his left arm, just to see what it was like. To his surprise and joy, it felt amazing. It gave him, relief. The tiniest trickle of blood, seeped from the small scratch. This gave him hope. Confidence. Gordo went in for a second cut, this time, flipping his arm over, revealing the soft flesh beneath. Lowering the blade, he pressed it slightly against his skin, then swiped it across the width of his arm, watching as small bubbles of crimson decorated the gaping wound. It was an inch and a half wide and close to half an inch thick. A heavy river began to pour from the wound, spreading scarlet across his desk. Gordo sat there, letting it bleed, until a puddle had formed beneath it. Relief spread through every inch of his body, tickling his fingernails and warming his toes. His heart felt rejuvinated as light spread throughout his darkened soul. Still, the puddle was growing larger and Gordo felt it time to tend to his wound. He clutched it in his hand and dashed to the blathroom. There, he drenched the cut with hydrogen peroxide and suffocated it with tissue, pressing down hard to stop the bleeding. Eventually it stopped and Gordo covered the wound with a large bandage, but he felt something new, coming alive within him. Something that felt dangerous. Secretive. Wonderful. He lied on his back, facing up at the ceiling. In that position, he chose to stay for a solid twenty minutes. This was his relief. Those two crystal blue eyes flickered in amazement as he closed his eyes to fall asleep.