Threads in the Wind

Night had fallen. Dark, pointed silhouettes raced by past the night-chilled windows, trees and more trees that blanketed the shivering hills like a skin. We were in the Appalachians now, carving a winding path up and down the weathered mountains, two crazy teenage runaways, as Hannah had put it. Now that I thought of it again, the epithet wasn't actually a terrible one. It connoted a sort of recklessness, a vivid, rash bravery, a freedom. I'd never been able to think of myself as brave before, nor reckless, nor free. Was I free? True, I was of an age where I could do as I pleased with my life - yet I was trapped, by my insufferable fragility, by my incompatibility with the world and all the rough, irreverent, beautiful, terrible notes that composed it.

Hannah was sleeping to my left. Most of the passengers were already asleep, I noted with a start. Strange, for it'd seemed only a few minutes ago that the rueful sun had sunk behind the pined and pining hills, throwing the world into dusty hues of orange and lavender. But Hannah. I thought of her again, how perfectly she fit into this exuberant, damaging world; as if she'd lived here forever; as if she had no parents and was everyone's child. The teenagers and old people that gathered around subway grates, smoking and laughing raucously as only teenagers and old people really can...the spiky, clamoring city graffiti like tattoos on the concrete skin of the world...the joyful toddler in their stroller-buckled petulance reaching out toward a bundle of dandelions. She belonged to them all, and they all belonged to her. I, on the other hand, could never belong to her, and she could never, never belong to me. I didn't even know why I'd bothered to think the thought. Only pain could come of it, although I couldn't lie to myself - I'd harbored the idea and the dream in the back of my mind for a long time.

Perhaps in another world it could be, a vastly different world. But not in this one. I looked out the window once more. Late that afternoon, heavy clouds had set in, gray and bruise-colored, yet sterile, bearing no rain. Now in the night, they had taken on subtle yet lurid pink and orange hues and seemed to weigh down heavier than ever. The sharp tips of the trees seemed the only hope of keeping the sky from collapsing and crushing everything into oblivion.

As if to voice this depression, Hannah made a sound in her sleep. A more desperate sound followed, and I wondered at her dreams. She tossed in her seat and flung out an arm in a sudden movement, her hand landing in my lap. I felt breathless at the unexpected contact. She withdrew her hand and made a low whimpering sound in her throat, followed by some words that might have been, "Oh God, don't let me die like this." I wondered even more fervently at her dreams, wishing they were mine instead. I'd never dreamt of anything besides Aislinn before, and to dream of dying sounded far more fascinating than any dream of bliss. So yes, I was jealous.

Hannah had quieted by then, and my thoughts were once again the loudest thing I could hear. The night stretched on. At some point, I must have fallen asleep, because I remember getting my wish for a dream of dying. In it, I was suddenly awakened by a level, authoritative voice stating that they were going to kill every passenger on the bus individually if each could not produce a reason for their merit to the world. It was dark, and the wan moonlight refracted through the windows was almost totally useless in illuminating any part of the speaker. It didn't matter either way - all anyone cared about was his gun. He walked casually down the length of the bus, casting a continuous glance that eventually settled on the person behind me. I bit my lip in annoyance - so damn close.

"You," he addressed them. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you. Tell me why you're not going to be another idiot waste of life that will only serve to further the world's advance down the toilet."

"I write, I guess," the addressee answered cautiously, her voice airy and childish.

"Really, now?" said the man with the gun. "Of what do you write?"

"Stories, mostly. Feelings. Images. Thoughts...um...observations...dreams..."

"May I hear you read some of this?"

"Yeah...sure. My notebook is in my backpack. Just let me..." A rustling sound could be heard, then the crinkling of pages being turned. The girl cleared her throat, and in a high, quavering voice, read: 'Night had fallen. Dark, pointed silhouettes raced by past the night-chilled windows, trees and more trees that blanketed the shivering hills like a skin. We were in the Appalachians now, carving a winding path up and down the weathered mountains, two crazy teenage runaways -"

"Alright," the man with the gun decisively stated. "I believe I am convinced. But I must know for certain that you will contribute something to the world with this and not throw it away like I've seen so many others like you do. Why should you be different?"

"You cannot know for certain," the girl said quietly. "I could give you every promise, but no one can know anything for certain until the future. You must simply trust in me."

"What will trust do for me?" he said, a jeer in his voice. "I must know." His hand tightened on the gun.

"I am sorry," the girl said, tears in her voice. "I do not want to die. I can only say that you must trust me. Is everything in life not an exercise in trust some way? Trusting our muscles to keep moving us, trusting our emotions to keep loving what should be loved. You will surely trust your gun to shoot properly if you decide to kill me."

"How young are you?" asked the man.

"Fifteen."

"Not a child, then."

"No, much younger than that."

"Don't plagiarize."

"I couldn't help it. It is true sometimes." There was a pause.

The man asked, "Why don't you want to die?"

"Many reasons."

"Pick one."

"Like I said - I want to write."

"Why?"

"I love it."

"Why?"

"It...it gives me something, a feeling, that nothing else can give me. I am not fully myself if I cannot write, so yes, it completes me. And the feeling, I strongly suspect, is happiness."

"Why do you want to be happy?"

"Why do you not want to be happy?"

"I do."

"You seem like you enjoy being sad."

"My sadness brings me pleasure." There was a stretch of silence.

"Are you a child?" asked the girl.

"Me? No."

"Sorry." Then she asked a strange question. "Do you like ice cream?"

"Used to," he answered without missing a beat.

"We passed an ice cream parlor leaving Chicago. What kind did you used to like?"

"All kinds."

"Buy some. Here's five bucks. Talk to the lady behind the counter. Ask her about her life. Probably no one ever does. Then find somewhere to stay. When you wake up, decide who you want to apologize to first."

As this sunk in, the man asked her her name. "Sylvie," the girl answered.

"That's not your real name, but you fancy it at the moment. It will do, I suppose. But you realize, Sylvie, that I am totally under your power. If you want to make me eat ice cream and reconcile myself with the world, you can. If you wish to make me turn this gun upon my miserable self, you need only write the words."

"That would not be plausible, the latter," Sylvie protested. "And the former is too idealistic."

"But this story in general is rather idealistic, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"It doesn't have to be this way, Sylvie. Why do you insist upon this? Don't you want to live?"

"Don't you want me to die?"

"I honestly don't know anymore."

"Well, I do. This affair as a whole has been very distracting and unrelated and I must be punished so the story can go on. Also I have planned something rather clever for you to say, which you could not say otherwise."

"Oh, gee, can't wait." There was another silence.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Sylvie - but there's one more thing. Why is it you never use contractions?" ("Was that the clever thing?" "No, it comes later. Shh!")

"I do. I was just trying to prolong the little life I have left."

"That's ridiculous. You don't have to die."

"I am not God. I am only a writer. And I've flattered myself waayy too much already, saying the extravagant things I have."

"Well, I refuse to kill you, then."

"Oh, God, this is a mess," muttered Sylvie. "No," she declared. "You are being unruly and impertinent. I will have my clever thing said, and you will say it."

The man said, "Well, Sylvie, I wish I could promise you this won't hurt, but as we never know the future until it comes, you will simply have to trust me." The sound of a silenced shot echoed up and down the length of the bus. "All that fuss just to say that?" the man said incredulously. "Lord, these writer types."

Beside me, Hannah was crying. "You," the man addressed her next. I went cold. No, I thought. Not her. "You know the drill - why shouldn't you die?"

"I don't know," answered Hannah softly. "I don't write. I barely even know how to write. Or read, either." No, don't, I thought again. What are you doing?

"That's quite the shame, my dear," said the man, no doubt stroking his gun. "I used to quite enjoy reading myself."

"What made you stop enjoying it?" she ventured to ask.

The man evidently dismissed this question as undeserving of an answer, because he asked instead, "Do you do anything at all?"

"I doubt it," Hannah answered.

"That isn't true!" I burst out. "She does so much for others, for strangers, even, she'll help them and give them things and never ask for anything in return." My words came out in a sloppy, headlong rush, yet I felt an unshakeable certainty in them. "Don't kill her! If anyone, kill me - I'm the one who needs it, I'm whiny and useless and very probably everything you hate about the world."

The man looked at me strangely. "I cannot."

"Why not?" I cried anguishedly. ("Because you're instrumental to the story, you silly boy!" cried Sylvie from beyond the grave.)

"Because you want to die," said the man.

"Fine, then, I don't want to die!" I said desperately, inanely. "A girl's family depends on me to tell them she committed suicide and it hadn't been an accident. Now am I eligible?"

"That was a terrible thing to exploit," the man with the gun admonished. "I've half a mind to kill you, in fact. But you really do seem miserable - I'd better frustrate your wishes, then, and not kill you."

At this moment, Hannah suddenly said, "Oh, now I remember! I dance, and I mess around with yarn and cloth and stuff. That's what I do. Well, besides all the stuff he mentioned. It's really not much, but it's something, I guess."

My recollection of what happened directly after that is dim, but I do know that Hannah was spared. I could feel only relief while everyone else was petrified in fear as the man prowled up and down the central aisle of the bus. Eventually, someone said something wrong, because there was another silenced shot. Three more soon followed; at each bullet, Hannah jerked as if it'd been her own body. After a sixth shot, bestowed on the driver, someone near the front of the bus made a mad dash to the door and tried to push it open. The man with the gun immediately whirled around; the bullet cut through the air and then into flesh, bone, will, and memory.

Time seemed to stop. As it started again in fast forward, what seemed like scores of people suddenly rushed toward the doors, a single massive human wave. Over the noise, the silent shots were indiscernible, yet the air was ever thickened with the sounds of people falling limply to the ground or crying out in fear or pain. "If you were innocent, you wouldn't run," called the gunman. "I'm sorry, but the worst way to make yourself look suspicious is to run." I didn't know if it was me or Hannah that grabbed the other's hand and ran, but the next thing I knew, we were in a mess of frantic bodies; and then the cool air of the Midwestern night was greeting our lungs. Behind us, quiet shots were constantly piercing the night. I still held some wild hope that one of them would find me, but Hannah pulled me low to the ground and behind an outcropping of rock by the side of the road.

Farther on down the road, the harsh sound of tearing metal could suddenly be heard, then an explosion as an orange light lit the sky. The driverless bus had gone off the road, skidded down a slope, and flipped onto its side, where it lay quietly licked by flames. "Damn, there goes our ride," said Hannah. "Should we call the police?" I asked. "I don't have a phone," she said. "Do you?" "No." "I bet a ton of people already called, anyway." "Do you think he died?" "Don't know. But I bet this'll be all over the news next morning. Guess we'll know then." "I guess. What do we do now?" "No idea. Keep going? Camp out for the night? Wait with all the others for the police to come?" I thought, then said, "I really just want to go." "Okay," she said. "Sounds good." "Should we keep going on this road?" "Yeah, why not. There really isn't another one. Yet, anyway. But eventually, we'll have to reach like a gas station or something, and we can ask for directions there."

We walked along in silence for a while, the night full of a mix of familiar and unfamiliar sounds, until Hannah asked quietly, "You really want that badly to die?" I blushed at the words I'd said, even though she was the one with hardly any discretion in her asking. "I did," I said. "I thought it was a dream. Of course, at one point I started to realize it couldn't be, but I knew I'd never get an opportunity like that again. I guess all I could see was that one thing, and I was selfish and I would've put anything on the table to have it, even things I never should have."

I thought she would ask why it was I wanted so much to die, but instead she said, "But if you hadn't, if you hadn't spoken up for me, and offered yourself, I'd definitely have died. Like, no way could I have thought of something to say for myself in time. So thank you, Peter. No one's ever done something like that for me. Like, holy shit, I don't even know what I can say to you that would mean enough. Just...you saved my life. Which would make you my hero."

"I just said what was true," I protested, embarassed that she would lavish so much praise on me. "I wasn't all heroic. I did a stupid, terrible thing that I'll probably regret for the rest of my life. Aislinn will never forgive me." "You could try saying you're sorry anyway. She has to know you're really a good person at heart. Don't ghosts know everything?" "I'm not sure I'd exactly call her a ghost."

I knew Aislinn wouldn't upbraid me for exploiting her cause, nor give me nightmares. She knew it was what I wished and deserved, so by refraining she would torture me and amplify my guilt all the more. I knew things couldn't be the same between us. I'd taken something of hers and broken it, betrayed her, and the hurt and resentment she felt would discolor my solitary hours for a long time afterward. More determined than ever to carry out my mission, I quickened my pace. Hannah, walking beside me, quickened hers as well.