Now Slide
Chapter 1
He wrote as the last line: ‘I don’t want this to influence your life in anyway, our decisions are separate.’
Everyone talked about it, except for the girl it was addressed to, they said it was as good as inviting her to take her own life also.
The rest of the note was uncommon in its category, it stated that he wasn’t dissatisfied . . . or unhappy with his parents . . . he wanted people to know above all that it wasn’t for any describable reason, and that maybe one day he’d find the words to explain.
His father was the one that found him.
Lying on the floor, head against the bathtub.
Two perfect circles of blood surrounding either hand and seeping into the lavender mat his mother had bought last Christmas.
He had always told him: "Hey, next year you should go somewhere, just catch a ride and keep going." he'd say, sitting at the end of his bed.
It didn't matter to Chris if he knew already he wouldn't be their.
His funeral was on the 30th, and Chris knew he wouldn't have wanted him there.
The next day, condolences were offered in delicate tones.
And when the day was over and the night had progressed people found the strength to forget all about - what they called at school - the tragic loss of youth as families sat in their living rooms.
Welcoming the new year with a laugh.
*
Jellyfish.
Floating in a sea of dry martini.
Pulsating just below the surface.
Blink once.
Twice.
"I'm sorry, what?" he looked up from his glass.
The woman in front of him had dressed just well enough to get in to the low-key high-expense club yet still be wearily hard on the eyes.
Her original aim lost some time before.
Alan Gailey was 26 and was confident he gave off a completely anti-social air. But still, he found himself here, at his brother's friend's company party.
The woman with the scrunchie-enforced side-ponytail, sustaining what she thought was a conversation for maybe over fifteen minutes.
Soon his assailant had scurried off in preparation of popping a cork for the occassion with the circle of enthusiasts.
Rooted to his leather chair, Alan intensified his gaze at the ultra-modern bar in front of him.
It seemed misplaced, and extra-terrestrial in lighting.
Now the cheers began to echo to his left.
"1 . . . 2 . . . 3."
"Happy New Year!"
*
Below the city
I am fragile.
*
The world ignored the next week, as if flipping through pages, stopping late into a Friday.
Chris was sitting on a bench around the side of the corner store, next to his friend Megan.
“I hadn’t foreseen this as the beverage of the night,” she said, opening her backpack “but here is an example of an excellent red wine.”
Apparently Megan’s mother had pictures of Chris and her in a paddling pool when they were four, though neither of them remembered the event.
“You know it’s probably been safe for a while to come to my house.”
She passed the bottle to him.
“If I did that we’d be separate from the night-life.” said Chris.
“You are aware of our coordinates? People drive for miles to avoid being here on a weekend.”
Together they had never been popular or otherwise, far as everyone was concerned school of little importance to all other life.
If there were only two ways something could be they’d find an inbetween.
The details of their relationship were the same, above all it would have been naïve not to notice how certain things could be convenient.
“You know, two years ago, what was I doing? It’s like I know all this stuff about someone else. Everything’s just - - clear now, like all of the recent past is completely stupid.” Chris said, looking to his side where she sat with her legs spread out towards him.
Megan drew a breath, thought for a second, then “If I thought about it all, I’d come up with a better sounding word than ‘happy’, but agreeing with what you said, now that I’ve figured stuff out things are pretty good.”
“Then let’s go.”
“What? Like - -
“Before he died he was always telling me to do something really . . . it’s hard to describe but he said to leave, he said it would be . . . ‘significant’.”
During the time they had known eachother, they were well informed enough to say everything that mattered.
Including things that pertained to Chris’s suggestion.
“I mean, yeah, . . . that’s a big deal.”
“In every way but to ourselves?”
‘Significant’
Everyone talked about it, except for the girl it was addressed to, they said it was as good as inviting her to take her own life also.
The rest of the note was uncommon in its category, it stated that he wasn’t dissatisfied . . . or unhappy with his parents . . . he wanted people to know above all that it wasn’t for any describable reason, and that maybe one day he’d find the words to explain.
His father was the one that found him.
Lying on the floor, head against the bathtub.
Two perfect circles of blood surrounding either hand and seeping into the lavender mat his mother had bought last Christmas.
He had always told him: "Hey, next year you should go somewhere, just catch a ride and keep going." he'd say, sitting at the end of his bed.
It didn't matter to Chris if he knew already he wouldn't be their.
His funeral was on the 30th, and Chris knew he wouldn't have wanted him there.
The next day, condolences were offered in delicate tones.
And when the day was over and the night had progressed people found the strength to forget all about - what they called at school - the tragic loss of youth as families sat in their living rooms.
Welcoming the new year with a laugh.
*
Jellyfish.
Floating in a sea of dry martini.
Pulsating just below the surface.
Blink once.
Twice.
"I'm sorry, what?" he looked up from his glass.
The woman in front of him had dressed just well enough to get in to the low-key high-expense club yet still be wearily hard on the eyes.
Her original aim lost some time before.
Alan Gailey was 26 and was confident he gave off a completely anti-social air. But still, he found himself here, at his brother's friend's company party.
The woman with the scrunchie-enforced side-ponytail, sustaining what she thought was a conversation for maybe over fifteen minutes.
Soon his assailant had scurried off in preparation of popping a cork for the occassion with the circle of enthusiasts.
Rooted to his leather chair, Alan intensified his gaze at the ultra-modern bar in front of him.
It seemed misplaced, and extra-terrestrial in lighting.
Now the cheers began to echo to his left.
"1 . . . 2 . . . 3."
"Happy New Year!"
*
Below the city
I am fragile.
*
The world ignored the next week, as if flipping through pages, stopping late into a Friday.
Chris was sitting on a bench around the side of the corner store, next to his friend Megan.
“I hadn’t foreseen this as the beverage of the night,” she said, opening her backpack “but here is an example of an excellent red wine.”
Apparently Megan’s mother had pictures of Chris and her in a paddling pool when they were four, though neither of them remembered the event.
“You know it’s probably been safe for a while to come to my house.”
She passed the bottle to him.
“If I did that we’d be separate from the night-life.” said Chris.
“You are aware of our coordinates? People drive for miles to avoid being here on a weekend.”
Together they had never been popular or otherwise, far as everyone was concerned school of little importance to all other life.
If there were only two ways something could be they’d find an inbetween.
The details of their relationship were the same, above all it would have been naïve not to notice how certain things could be convenient.
“You know, two years ago, what was I doing? It’s like I know all this stuff about someone else. Everything’s just - - clear now, like all of the recent past is completely stupid.” Chris said, looking to his side where she sat with her legs spread out towards him.
Megan drew a breath, thought for a second, then “If I thought about it all, I’d come up with a better sounding word than ‘happy’, but agreeing with what you said, now that I’ve figured stuff out things are pretty good.”
“Then let’s go.”
“What? Like - -
“Before he died he was always telling me to do something really . . . it’s hard to describe but he said to leave, he said it would be . . . ‘significant’.”
During the time they had known eachother, they were well informed enough to say everything that mattered.
Including things that pertained to Chris’s suggestion.
“I mean, yeah, . . . that’s a big deal.”
“In every way but to ourselves?”
‘Significant’