Beneath The Moon

Holly stayed in the car, awake, the whole time I was asleep. When I awoke, in pain and groggy-eyed, she sat there, like stone, waiting to talk to me. I turned to her, waiting to see what she would say. Why was she mad at me? Why had she, in a rush of worry and fret, rushed me to the hospital, only to practically ignore me as soon as I got there?

“You’ve tried to kill yourself,” she whispered. I blinked slowly, taking in what she had just said. Finally comprehending, I bit my lip and nodded.

“Why?” she said, a bit louder, “why would you do that?” This time, I bit my tongue. I tried to cross my arms, but that only put me in more pain. Instead, I set my right arm on the arm rest.

“I was a depressed kid,” was merely all I said. My voice was raspy, and I had a horrible craving for coffee.

“Well, fine. I can understand depression…but did you ever get help for it? Were there any other times?”

“I never really got help…I didn’t need it. As soon as I was sent to the hospital for cutting, I realized what I had done. The only other time before that was when I tried to overdose.”
“So then, how did this happen?” she asked, motioning to my back.

“Holly. I was headed towards your house when you found me. I wouldn’t have gone anywhere if I just wanted to die. Franklin did this to me with a kitchen knife because we skipped school.” Holly covered her mouth with her hand. “Yea,” I went on, “so I came here to see if I could stay with you for a while. I can’t go back there, and if I go to the foster agency, I’ll be passed around again to who knows where until I turn 18.”

“So you’re absolutely telling the truth? You didn’t do this to yourself? It’s all in the past?” she questioned me.

“I was a depressed kid,” I repeated halfheartedly. I half-smiled and stared out my window, looking into the garage. I was almost zoning out. “Oh, for where would we be without our horrible childhoods? The secrets lying beneath the sheets, dirty rumors and malicious lies, swept under the floorboards; merely there for the brave of heart to take a peek once in a while. For our past becomes our futures, whether we will it to be or not. Scraped-up knees and bandaged faces, just popping in to say ‘hello’,” I recited. Holly stared at me crookedly.

“Who’s that from?” she asked. I turned my head back towards her and smiled.

“Me,” I replied. She smiled back at me. Suddenly, she hopped out of the car. She came around to help me out, and pulled me through the garage door until we were standing in the middle of her kitchen. Margret was there, smoking and waiting for something to be done in the microwave. Holly carefully pulled me along until we were standing right in front of Margret.

“What do you want?” Margret asked, annoyed. She always had that tone when I was in the house. I think she was unused to having other people in the house besides Holly; they both kept to themselves. Neither Holly or I had mentioned that I was the Elliott that she had kept as a foster child ten years ago.

“Mom, Elliott needs a place to stay. Can he crash here?” Holly asked innocently.

“You aren’t having sex, are you?” Margret asked, as if it was normal for Holly to bring recently homeless seventeen-year-olds into their house. Holly looked taken aback, clearly not expecting this response, or this attitude.

“No, Mom, we’re just friends,” Holly explained. The little flame that kept a piece of my heart, thinking we could have something, instantly died. However, I was still grateful they might give me a place to stay. Margret took one look at me up and down and made up her mind.

“Yea, he can stay,” she said grudgingly, “just don’t do it while I’m home,” she added. Holly and I looked at each other awkwardly, and she gave me a don’t-mind-her-she’s-a-crazy-old-loon-leave-her-to-her-peace look. I took my bag [with a bit of difficulty] and headed into the guest room with Holly. Throwing my bag down on the bed, I looked around. This was the same room I had lived in ten years ago. It felt weird to come back.

Once Margret went to bed [which was early, as always], Holly and I snuck two beers out of the fridge and plopped ourselves in front of the T.V. in the front room. And as soon as Holly and I agreed on a channel to watch, I popped open my beer and took a big gulp. I sat upright on the couch, trying not to spill my beer. Holly, now clothed in pajamas, laid down on the couch and rested her head in my lap. I freaked out, naturally. Did this mean she thought differently of me? Or was this just a friendly gesture, a normal everyday thing that would happen between friends? How was I supposed to know? I’m not some freaking social butterfly. I really had no idea how to act around friends.

“Can I light a smoke?” I asked, already taking my pack out of my pocket. Holly looked up at me.

“Elliott, this place reeks of second-hand smoke. Mom’s not gonna notice if you light one…can I have one?” she asked. I handed her a cigarette, lighting both of ours from one flame out of my zippo. Holly stayed up shortly past midnight watching T.V. I stayed up shortly past midnight watching T.V., and wondering why the hell she decided to lay on me.

I decided to shrug off Holly’s head in my lap as nothing more than a sign that she was tired, and needed to lie down. I was right there, and we were friends, so she just decided to lay on me, right? Nothing sexual. But honestly, I had no clue. I was just guessing. Personally, I wanted to be wrong. I wanted her to like me as more than a friend.