Sequel: Summer Shadows

Winter Wakes

Seventeen.

Truth.

Understanding.

This setup with Simon Dreyton had existed with neither one of those things. I had never understood anything that was going on with this. I didn’t get why he wouldn’t talk about why he was dead. He’d never told me the truth about why I was blindly attending Brown University. Everything thus far had been a horrible mesh of secrets and confusion. But now, Simon wanted to talk.

There were two reasons I didn’t say no to that. One was his horrible, violent personality. I had a feeling we’d be talking either way, and saying no to him was probably the equivalent of telling Jason, ‘thank you, but I don’t want my arm chopped off and then shoved down my throat.’ It was going to happen either way. Reason number two was my own curiosity. Clearly I couldn’t keep it in tap to save my life. Additionally, I was curious as to what the deal was. Why was Simon’s brother comatose in a hospital from a car wreck—not just a car accident? Why did he sound so pained when asking me if I really believed he killed himself? And, how did my attendance to Brown University tie in with either one of those matters?

The room had been silent for at least two minutes, ever since I told Simon to start talking. I hadn’t moved though, I was still curled up under my silk navy comforter, facing my closet and vanity; he was over by my window and my bookshelf. So my back was to him. As it seemed, this was going to be another repeat of the time we tried to ‘talk’ after his funeral, where he possessed my body by some odd power. That little chat hadn’t gone so well considering the only thing I got out of it from him was ‘I took over your body.’

“Look, Simon. If you’re not going to talk I’m going to sleep. These pain meds haven’t kicked in yet, so my wrist is kind of hurting. If possible I’d like to sleep through that as opposed to waiting for a half-assed discussion about what’s really going on, that in all honesty probably won’t tell me anything. So if you have something to say, please spill it. Otherwise just let me go to sleep.”

End rant. Wait for bitchy retort or violent act.

Seconds passed; nothing. Silence hung heavily in the air of the room that was only lit by the fading afternoon sun pouring through my window. I hated the orange glow that illuminated my walls. I could never really explain why but sunset made my stomach turn. Some oranges I could deal with, but they all oddly pulled me into a sense of unease. Most of the time I could ignore this part of the day successfully, but when the orange light filled my room like so I couldn’t help it. I hated twilight. Well, I hated most of it. The orange it brought at first seemed ripe with madness and chaos. It looked like fire. I don’t know why I felt that way, the color just seemed foreboding. I hated the fear and anticipation it seemed to hold. What I liked was near the end of twilight, the beginning of the night. The so-called blue hour. The sky seemed more at peace then, with a hint of pink dancing on the horizon while shades of blue blanketed everywhere else.

Unfortunately this was not my favored time of day. This was the part I most despised, that made me feel the most irritation, tension, madness, or whatever it could be called. That feeling was worsened by a sprained wrist, and a secretive ghost. At the moment all three of these horrid factors seemed inescapable.

Then came the sigh.

“I said we needed to talk and I meant it. I’m just trying to decide what to say first, where to start.” That sigh had simply been a prelude to how exhausted and defeated his voice really sounded. “But I would like to know, how did you come across this… information on my death?”

Apparently I hadn’t dodged the bullet that was this discussion. I don’t know what had even vaguely allowed me to relax, and not worry about this conversation. Stupidity maybe? I think that was probably it.

The shadows of tree branches and a few remaining leaves that clung pointlessly onto the trees shook from the wind against the backdrop of orange that coated the wall before me. I resisted the urge to turn over, and face him like a normal person and opted to focus my attention on one particularly jittery leaf-shadow.

“This frat kid was picking on me, asking me how I got into Brown University this late. Your name may have slipped out with a string of curse words or something. Then he went on a rant about me taking advantage of your mother when she was vulnerable from a son committing suicide just to get into college,” My words had been bland of any emotion. It was a statement of fact and nothing more.

“Mind if I ask who this was?” Further heaviness marred his tone. Despite the temptation to turn around and examine him I kept myself focused on the leaf that appeared to be having a seizure.

“George, the jackass ginger-haired frat boy.”

The cold hand on my shoulder that pulled me roughly onto my back and left me staring wide-eyed and startled up into Simon’s face wasn’t nearly as much of a shock as his expression was. It was the forehead creased in worry, the corners of the lips pulled down as his mouth hung open slightly, and his bright blue eyes alight with anxiety, disbelief, and pain that did me in. I hadn’t known he was capable of such feelings, let alone the ability to show them.

“George Max? Are you sure it was him?” He spoke hastily, shaking my shoulders a little. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, air entering and exiting, but nothing that vaguely resembled sounds or words. I gave up, staring in silence at him with a brief nod.

Simon’s cold touch vanished, but left a chill still lingering on the places his hands had been. Those hands were then over his face, covering it as he turned and took a slow step before his fingers pulled their way through his blonde locks. Voicing how much he was freaking me out at this point was impossible. There were no words. Nothing, which could even vaguely describe the level of confusion I felt while watching him. Any trace of the composure I was used to him manifesting in my presence was gone. This wasn’t the Simon I had become accustomed to; this was a mess of a person who appeared to be on the verge of a mental breakdown, the pure definition of unstable.

The orange light that somewhat filtered through him seemed to match the vibe he gave off, and I liked neither. Albeit normal Simon was violent, he was somewhat predictable. It made the situation more manageable. But right now, he was nothing but unpredictable. I had never experienced this side of him. It scared me more than his temper possibly could. I didn’t know how to deal with him, or what I could possibly do with it.

“I never thought… But George knows me better than that,” His self-mumbling was not out of ear-shot. Nor was it out of boundaries for blunt replies.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

I watched a jolt of shock course through Simon’s figure before he turned to look at me. I think he was stunned, and didn’t understand the meaning of my statement. I felt the need to explain.

“Have you looked at that asshole, Simon? I mean really now. You know what his appearance gives off? The same pompous air yours does. The same aura that leads you to believe that he’s the type of person who’s only your friend as long as you agree with what he says, or you’re useful, or sticks around as long as things are easy. As soon as there’s conflict, he’s fucking gone. He hears rumors about you? He’ll believe them, not bothering to stick up for you. Of course he’d spread around your suicide tale. Because guess what? That gets him attention. Who cares if you’re dead? You two probably fed off each other’s popularity and dick behavior when you were alive, so what’s the difference if he’s using you now that you’re dead?”

The irritating little cricket in Pinocchio once said, “Let your conscience be your guide.” My conscience applauds honesty, but like most peoples’ doesn’t care for brutality combined with that. Right now I’m giving my conscience the middle finger and going straight for the throat. I couldn’t help it. Simon was blind with stupidity if he believed George was going to do anything other than spread the details of his death.

“And on the same note,” I continued. Oh no. I wasn’t done yet. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t believe you committed suicide. Having trouble thinking of something? You should be. Because you know what? You haven’t given me a damned good reason for any of this. You’ve kept everything from me. You’ve assaulted me when I’ve asked questions about it. I have nothing else to go on but what people tell me. I know nothing about you, well aside from your mother’s the dean of the school and your brother was in a car wreck. And damn, those seem like they could throw some people into a suicidal spiral. Wouldn’t you have a lot to live up to with your mom as the dean? Wouldn’t your twin being put into a coma increase your stress level? Wouldn’t—“

“My family owns Keystone Bank. My father is the CEO,” He cut me off with a startlingly angry tone. “When my mother’s not at the school she’s there, helping him. My brother is gay. They found his car in a tree, with traces of paint from another car marking the driver’s side. He’d been intentionally run off the road. I’m an avid partier and have been drinking since I was fourteen. So tell me, at a party two days after my brother’s wreck when I drank a mere three shots of whiskey and three beers, does it sound like I should have died from alcohol poisoning? That’s supposed to kill you slowly, isn’t it? So why was I dead two hours later? Does that sound like fucking alcohol poisoning to you? Huh?

“And why the fuck would I kill myself? Yeah my mom was the dean, like I cared. I had good grades. I had a hot girlfriend. I’d just joined a fraternity with George, and I was on the fucking Lacrosse team. Do I sound like the suicidal type to you? Do I, Maggie?”

I was now the one sitting on the bed, mouth agape. In his minute-long speech I’d learned more about him than I had since the moment we had encountered each other at the funeral home. But now the problem was with what he was saying, what he seemed to be dancing around with his words.

My mouth felt dry as I tried to swallow, “What are you insinuating, Simon?”

His glare hardened to its former glory, the anger, the cruelty, the Simon I was used to staring menacingly at me. The sky outside had faded to a pink, so he wasn’t as well lit as he had been and was now oddly tinted to match the glow outside.

“It’s simple math, Maggie, it really is,” He snarled. “Two days before someone tried to kill my brother. We figured it was just a fucking hate crime. But then, lo and behold I die at a party. From what is dubbed fucking alcohol poisoning. Six drinks would not have killed me. Six drinks would not have killed any guy I know. So say it, please. Just what am I trying to insinuate?”

The words stuck in my dry throat as my heart seemed to pound viciously in my head. Suicide would have been simpler to be realistic. Suicide would not have made my selfishness return once more, rolling in with the constant question of, why me? Suicide would not have made me want to get as far away from Brown University as human possible, even if that meant losing a full ride to an Ivy League school. But this would. And this did.

The chaotic turmoil and uneasiness I felt with the orange glow of twilight seemed to mirror my life. I didn’t like this feeling. I didn’t know how long it was going to last, the only thing I felt certain of was that the “blue hour” of this situation wasn’t anywhere in sight. I confirmed that to myself when I was finally able to speak.

“Simon, you were murdered?”
♠ ♠ ♠
"Shocking all the evidence left
On this holiday
When you're creeping up with serious thoughts
And what you're waiting to say..."

-Shiny Toy Guns

So sorry for the delay. On the upside, I now find myself in a potential relationship. :)

Comments? They'd make me super happy.