Casually Homicidal, page 17
“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Arden says, narrowing her eyes.
I shake my head. “No. You remember what I said about my mom in the car? About how I got in trouble and she hung up on the principal?”
Arden swallows and nods, not daring to break eye contact with me. “Yes, I remember.” The world pauses for a moment. As Arden and I hold eye contact, something passes between us—like oil and water flowing back and forth in the same container. One replaces the other, moving back and forth in a dance until they achieve balance.
And as this wave passes from me to Arden and back again, it hits me—wraps up my breath and steals it in one grasp. It’s all the same shit, just with different packaging. Something sinks inside me, and it’s warm and heavy and yearning, like a flower opening up to the sun and rain.
I think this is what they call empathy.
20 Arden
Friday, May 25th
‘Zenosyne’— the sense that time keeps going faster
The call of a house wren awakens me.
I jolt awake. Pines swirl above me, and the sky is a dusty blue. It’s barely dawn, and mist rises from the dark brown earth. In my panic to get up, I accidentally kick Hendrix in the shin. He’s so close. For a second, I freeze as I remember last night. Like the cold ground, the fear seeps back in.
I stand, my muscles and joints painfully recalibrating after sleeping on the unforgiving ground. Even though I’m already cold, I walk to the stream and splash my face with water.
Hendrix is still asleep, just like the rest of the world, suspended in the place where the chill of night remains, but the dawn tints the sky. The air is misty, and the outdoor orchestra is just beginning to tune for the morning performance. Shivering, I pull my shirt off to dry my face.
I stop. Sit back on my knees. Stare into the forest that divides into fractals until branches and pine needles are all I can see. How did I get here? What crucial strings snapped inside of me that made me want to leave and never look back?
I pull my shirt back on to keep from crying, because my heart has sunk past my knees. Out here, I can’t hide my loneliness and despair. Out here, I can’t hide what I’m feeling because the forest will just throw it right back in my face.
Sobs break in my chest, and I cover my mouth because out here, shit echoes. A hollowness rips through me—up and down and back again.
I’m so lonely.
The house wren chirps again, and I stand, whipping my head around to find that damn thing. Because that noise—that bird—it only reminds me of Max and his stupid obsession with that bird from so many years ago.
I pick up a rock and throw it into the forest. Nothing stirs but the brush as the rock hits the ground. Now, that hollowness doesn’t just ache. It burns and it consumes. To someone else, the chirp of a house wren would be a delightful sound of spring. But to me, the house wren means death. It means innocence rotted to black.
The detail pops into my head like an unwanted zit, bright and unavoidable: Max named the house wren Arthur. We didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl, but he was ten and when you’re that age, anything you catch needs a name. So I went with it. Years later, we still brought little Arthur back up again in conversation every once in a while.
The moment feels like it’s from another lifetime. Back then, I was Michelle, and he was the Max who always got mad at me for squishing the spider instead of capturing and letting it outside. A sinking kind of panic rises in me, but it’s not a panic that something bad is going to happen. It’s the realization that the bad thing has already happened.
‘Zenosyne’— the sense that time keeps going faster
When Sarah and I were in eighth grade, we didn’t understand this one. Because time doesn’t change; it always ticks by at the same rate. But no matter how much we break it up, no matter how many times we divide it or how many ways we quantify it, time still moves forever forward, whether you’re with it or not.
Then one day, you wake up, and realize you’re teetering on the edge of something. And I don’t know how I got there. My childhood has been my whole life up until now, and it’s almost over. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced true existential anxiety until now.
Who Hendrix and I were before all this is gone, but we have yet to become who we are. This spiral of life only tightens, and I’m still skipping a beat. Everything keeps going faster, and nothing means as much as it used to anymore. Me, my parents, everyone—we got so caught up in chasing time that we started wasting it.
It’s only out here, deep in the woods, that I realize I miss everybody. This separation, this time, only tells me of the things I’m missing and the things I once had.
Despite how awful they can be, I miss my parents. I miss being close to the comforting streetlights and the familiar faces. I miss the good times, because I did have some. I miss the outline of the mountains to the west, and how the sun would settle into a certain crevice in the month of July. I miss my friends, even the ones who wouldn’t consider me theirs. I miss what we had. And now it’s all over.
I absolutely hate that I miss it. Because I came out here to get rid of all of that, because I hated it. Still do, but I think I left a part of my soul there, back home. A piece that I might never be able to untangle.
Something’s splitting inside of me. This is yet another kudoclasm , except in reverse.
I yearn to see the stars at full brightness again.
I didn’t think I’d miss it all this much. I don’t want to miss it all this much. But this limbo I have created with Hendrix has brought out things in me I didn’t know existed.
Like the ebb and flow of a rainstorm, I start to cry. I let myself hurt, for all of the things I’ve loved and lost. For everything I never had. For everything I had and didn’t appreciate.
That house wren lands on the ground across the stream and begins pecking at the earth for bugs. While the hitches in my breathing slow, the bird perks its head up and begins singing. A smile plays on my lips, as if daring me to allow myself to feel good, to feel relief.
Hendrix turns over behind me and I whip around, alight with panic. The wren flutters away. He’s still asleep, thank God.
Composing myself, I pack up our stuff and wait. If he doesn’t wake up within the hour, I’ll pack his shit up all by myself.
Hendrix jolts awake, sitting up. I watch him as he grabs at the dirt with his fists. Slowly, he turns his head towards me and makes eye contact. Immediately, shame darkens his face like clouds covering the sun. His eyes look sunken in, like someone took a spoon and gouged out some flesh like scoops of frozen yogurt for a midnight snack.
“Morning,” I say.
Hendrix blinks, like he’s forgotten where he is. He takes one breath in, shaking like a leaf.
Chills race over my limbs. “You alright?”
His eyes flash to me, and he clears his throat. “What?”
“Nevermind. Let’s go.”
Hendrix rubs his eyes, groaning. “What? Where?”
“Somewhere that’s not here,” I say.
Hendrix swallows, something haunting and deep staining his eyes. “Right.”
We’re carrying our lives on our backs through open fields to forested mountains to open fields again. After about two hours of walking, both of us are soaked in sweat—not from any heat, but because we’re hauling an extra fifty pounds each. I’m carrying my clothes and toiletries, plus the sleeping bag, food, and money. Hendrix has his clothes and stuff, a blanket, and the camping supplies I bought, such as the water filters, fire starters, and pots and pans.
After the morning gray burnt off, it’s been nothing but dry, mountain air and mosquitos gnawing at my legs. I slap a particularly painful one, and my hand comes away smeared with blood. My eyes immediately go to the jacket tied around Hendrix’s waist, and the faint reddish-brown stains that will probably never come out.
When thunder begins to roll across the sky, we stop and look up. That explains the mosquitos.
“Shit,” I say. Hendrix and I haven’t spoken much today. I’ve been trying to give him some space after yesterday, but to be honest, he’s freaking me out a little.
Then the rain starts in a slow current. We run across the pale yellow field into the next cluster of trees. The mountains and open sky have disappeared once again, and my chest tightens with worry.
It begins to pour, and despite our idea that the trees would shield us, they only collect the water and drop it on us in buckets.
“We should stop!” Hendrix shouts above the roar of the rain.
“Where?” I say. We comb through the woods for a while for any place that’s dry, but it doesn’t really matter. We’re cold and soaked, and our packs have become heavy like water balloons.
Eventually, we sit on a boulder and drop our bags. My back muscles spring up like tight coils, and I finally have the chance to catch my breath. We’ve been steadily climbing in elevation all day, and I think the altitude is getting to me.
I rub the knots in my shoulders and watch as Hendrix just sits there, letting the water drip around his face. Sometimes I just stop and think about the kind of shit Hendrix and I have gotten ourselves into. We’re lost, in more ways than one. No one knows we’re out here, and if this rain keeps up, the wet cold could kill us overnight. No house wrens to be seen this time around to provide solace to my weary soul. I wrap my arms around my body, shivering.
Michelle would have gotten such a kick about all this crazy shit Arden’s doing now. Scoffing, I pull out my wallet. I know, who keeps pictures in their wallet anymore?
Huddling from the rain, I pull out two polaroids. I find myself not looking at Max or anyone else in the photos—just staring right back at myself from the past. I barely recognize the person I was in them. It’s like a carbon copy—a strange, unfamiliar clone making uncomfortable eye contact.
“What?” Hendrix asks. He doesn’t look right at me, just turns his head towards me and keeps his eyes trained somewhere on the ground.
“Nothing. Just thinking about how crazy this is.”
“Yeah.”
But I keep talking, like I do. “For eighteen years, I lived such a safe life. Cushy little suburban house. Nuclear family with two-point-five kids.” The rain softens, and the hush of the forest returns. Hendrix still can’t look at anything but my feet. “You know Elliot, the guy I told you about? Even he was safe, in some ways. My whole life, I’ve been trying to break out of this safeness. This cycle of mediocrity that just leaves us with decades wasted.”
I think of my parents, who got married right out of college and bought a house and have worked at the same place and have done the same thing their whole life. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I know that they live without purpose. Something about the years has changed them. Time for them has no meaning. All of it goes by at a numbing speed—and they don’t seem to care.
Then I think, why don’t I have the courage to be an absolute nobody?
“I’m not saying I want to live this crazy, avant-garde life or anything. I’m saying I want joy. I want meaning, fulfillment. And there’s no place for any of those things in safeness. At least none that I’ve found.”
Lightening slices the heavens open, but neither of us flinch. “And I’m afraid I’m never gonna get any of those things, you know? I don’t wanna miss it. Whatever it is.”
I look over at Hendrix, but he’s just picking at a hangnail.
“You gonna say something?” I ask.
He puts a hand up. “I’m getting there,” he says, the spikes returning to his voice. This sharpness makes me realize something: Hendrix isn’t safe. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to him.
“I have never lived a safe life,” he says. “Some part of it was always unstable. So all this safeness you’re talking about, I don’t get it.”
“I’m sorry.”
Hendrix finally looks at me—right at me—and the shards of his brokeness pierce me. “I-” His voice splinters. “Shit,” he mutters, shattering our eye contact.
“No, it’s ok. I’m listening.” Like my life depends on it.
“If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ll ever be happy. Fulfilled, or whatever. I’m not even quite sure what it means.”
His words fall heavier than rain. The same rain that bends the branches, that turns each dip of the land into a river. They are heavier than the world itself. I don’t know what to say, but I think that’s my problem. I don’t need to say anything.
Taking my hand, I place it on Hendrix’s hunched back. He tenses for a moment, and then relaxes, accepting the gesture. The rain still hasn’t let up, and the sky is only getting darker. Why do I stay with him when he’s given me every reason to leave? Statistically speaking, you’d think I would have by now.
Because I don’t want to be alone. Because I want to stop leaving people. Because under all Hendrix’s rage, I see someone who is hurting. Someone confused, lonely, maybe even a little scared. Someone like me.
Right now, time is moving at the perfect speed. Being fully present in this moment is giving it meaning. Finally, through all that thunder and all that rain, somewhere high up in a tree, a house wren sings.
Evening comes, and I’m starting to get stressed again because it feels like we haven’t made much progress. I’ve been checking my phone constantly—not in search of service, but frantically checking the time. We’ve been walking all day—admittedly not whole-heartedly. Hendrix has been even more down since our conversation in the rain, and being soaking wet and dirty in the wilderness kind of just makes me want to lie down, so we do that for a while. We’re sure as hell not thirsty, but we are hungry, and it’s making me particularly irritable.
Hendrix and I sleep apart, cold and wet. He’s curled in the fetal position in the dark, and I’m lying flat on my back, staring up at the stars. As our clothes hang to dry on tree branches, they waver like ghosts in the wind.
The stars carve holes inside me. Or maybe it’s just the gnawing hunger. For the thousandth time, I take out my phone—nearly dead at this point—to finally check for service. Nothing. Man, I’d kill for some music right now, but I don’t want to run down the battery.
“Hendrix?” I ask.
“Yeah?” His voice appears in the dark.
“You okay?”
A pause before he responds. “No.”
I exhale. I want to be okay. I want him to be okay. “You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to eat?”
I hear Hendrix turn over. “Arden, why are you talking to me? I thought we were going to sleep.”
“Because I want to talk to you. I, uh, want to make sure you’re alright.”
Sighing, he turns back over. For a moment, he’s so quiet I’m afraid he’s never going to respond. “I’d love some pie. In the summers, my mom would make the best rhubarb and strawberry pie. In the fall, she’d even make it into a cheesecake.”
His mom. The detail sticks out, but I decide to ignore it and laugh a bit. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
The roar of forest sounds—from hoots to howls to the frogs that sing near the creek—fill the space for a while as I zone out. I was never a skilled enough baker to make a good pie that didn’t involve pre-made crust. And then it clicks — pie.
“Hey, Hendrix?”
“Yeah?” He’s getting a bit tired of me.
I take out my phone, the dim screen barely showing me that I have 2% battery left. Frantically, I search through my downloaded songs before my battery dies and flickers out for good.
Rustling. “What?” he repeats.
“Just hold on a sec . . .” I insist. After a few more silent moments, the song begins to play.
At first, Hendrix frowns like he doesn’t remember, but I know he does. The quality of my phone speaker isn’t great, and the piano has that distinctive 1970s accentuation, where it sounds like it was recorded on a tin can.
When the first line starts, I begin to sing. Quietly, like the trees have ears. In an instant, I’m taken back to the night at that bar & grille, and my chest glows with warmth.
“Arden, what are you doing?” he asks, dismayed. The sound from my phone barely fills the space between us, but it’s like candlelight—just bright enough to push away the darkness.
I get up and move closer to Hendrix, barely visible beneath the starlight. The cold ground seeping away all my heat, I lie down next to him, close enough for him to know it was intentional but not encroaching on his personal space. Fear still gives me a cruel poke every once in a while, reminding me of our current circumstances. As I sing about a poor widowed bride, I clutch my chest, pausing for dramatic effect, but he doesn’t respond. “Hey, c’mon, what comes next?”
It comes as a whisper inside me: Please, Hendrix. Sing with me again.
I hear him sigh. Scratchy and quiet, he starts out with the chorus, singing about dried-up levees and drinking whiskey.
But at least he starts.
We don’t sing it with any drama or fanfare, but we sing it together. Soft, just so the two of us can hear it. My phone dies midway through, but we sing the entire song like that until it ends, and we fall asleep.
21 Hendrix
Saturday, May 26th
My dreams are coated in blood.
With one sucking breath, I wake up in cloudy darkness. There’s barely light in the furthest reaches of the sky. It’s 4am, maybe. Cold and sore from sleeping on the forest floor, my stomach lurches. Still drenched in the hazy, violent nightmare, I drag myself up and careen a few feet into the forest—
Only to vomit up greenish-brown bile, sticky and snotty on the plants and dirt. My back muscles strain as I retch up nothing, reeling at the images of blood and slimy gore that won’t. Get. Out.
Then yesterday hits me. All of the things Arden and I said in the rain. Singing American Pie , again. The vulnerability is raw, and it throbs hot in the freezing night. Paranoid, I look over my shoulder, convinced I’m going mad.
