November, 2019

"Listen," She started. "You can't keep doing this. Im tired of dealing with it. So is Lina."

He opened his eyes and looked up. She was furious. Her left eyebrow perked up as silence filled the gap. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back on the hammock as he replied.

"So what? Im the one thats skipping. Not you guys. What does it matter," he replied.

"What does it matter?! You haven't gone to school in 4 days! You didn't even text us for the first two." She turned around, brought her hand up to her forehead, and rubbed her temples before turning to face him again.

"Look, you barely got away with it last week. Stilton almost suspended you. You got lucky with after-school detention." She said.

"Shouldn't even have shown up to that. They put me in a cubicle and I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone. I tried slipping a note to the person next to me but they got up and threw it away."

"Yeah. Try not showing up and get expelled. You know he's been way more strict lately. There's no way he's going to let it slip again," she said.

"That's the same thing you said last time. Im still here," he replied.

"We're not kids anymore! Cant, you get your head around that and stop acting like one?" She retorted.

"Exactly. We have more agency over our choices. Like the choice not to go to class this week," he yawned.

"That's not what I meant. You know that. You have to be more responsible Clint." Her hand went up to her temples again.

"Whatever. Im not failing any classes. Why should they give a shit," he said.

"Because you're setting a bad example. Because you're breaking school policy. Because people from our class are already complaining."

"Okay well who are they? Why should I give a shit."

She sighed.

"Whatever." she said.

He didn't reply. A song, by Pierce the Veil, blasting from his phone, filled the silence. She took out a stack of loose sheets from her backpack and placed them on top of the half open guitar case that lay at the base of the tree.

"That's our lecture notes, assignments, homework, and my personal notes. It's why I came over in the first place," she explained.

He opened an eye and glanced down at the stack of papers. Then opened the other and looked up at her.

"Fuck, that's a lot. Thanks." He said.

She rolled her eyes and said, "I'm not the one skipping school halfway through the semester."

"Whatever," he said.

"Well, I have to get to practice. I'll see you tomorrow," she turned around and started walking towards the gate at the end of his parents backyard.

"Hey, Claudia, can you do me a favor?" he asked.

She glanced back, "What?"

"Jerry owes me half an ounce of weed. Think you could get it from him and give it to me the next time you do a homework delivery?" he explained.

"What?! No! Im not going to be carrying around a bag of weed at school. Don't drag me into your vices. If you want it, go pick it up tomorrow," she replied.

"Well, it's not like I'm dry anyways. I'll see you next week then."

"Tomorrow," she said as she started walking towards the gate.

"Hey!" he shouted as she was almost out of the backyard. "Close the gate behind you. You always leave it open."

She almost slammed it. But, not quite. The sound echoed around the backyard. As it faded he could already hear her footsteps on the sidewalk. He waited till they faded too.

He got up from the hammock and gathered the loose sheets as he left the yard and headed into the house.

His room was starkly devoid of character. The walls were painted with a coat of light grey. The floor wooden, tinted beige. There was a brown sofa bed by the doorway. On the opposite wall, a simple black desk with a bookshelf that mostly held graphic novels and sheet music. A green Jan-sport backpack leaned against the foot of the desk. Two sliding doors, presumably leading into a closet, were on the wall to the right side of the desk. To the left was the room's only window which looked out into the homogenous suburban development.

He grabbed the backpack then sat on the couch with his right leg folded under his left one. He flipped through the papers, sorting them into three separate piles. Once he was done he placed one of the piles on his desk, another in his backpack, and the final one went into a small wastebasket at the foot of the desk.

He got his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time. It was 2:35, his sister would be home at 4:30, he had to get to it. He took out an older, black, backpack from his closet and took it with him into the yard.

It was already starting to look like late afternoon. A quality of fall in Washington. First, he went to the gate and opened it. Then he sat down on one of the two garden chairs near it. The backyard was bordered by a wooden fence that separated it from the dozens of identical backyards in the neighborhood. Beyond it, the forest. There were two young birch trees on the left side of the yard. In between, a white threaded hammock.

He sat down in one of the beige garden chairs by the sliding doors. The contents from his backpack spilled out onto the glass coffee table that separated the two chairs. He took the pipe and held it up. The bowl was stained with tar and some other, gooier, substance. He brought his shirt up and cleaned away as much as he could.

The grinder was already filled with weed. He put some in the bowl then put both grinder and pipe back on the table. He brought out his pocket knife and took out the blade. He ran it along the back of his hand. Flat side down. Then with a quick and simple motion, he ran the blade across his wrist.

He smiled as the blood started to seep from the wound. He'd cut it perfectly. A long row of scars preceded the new cut. The first few looked awkward and were unevenly spaced out. As the frequency of the scars increased along his wrist so did his accuracy. The last half dozen or so were done with mechanical precision.

He let the first few drops run down his wrist. They went slowly, falling only after he shook his arm. He grabbed the pipe with his good hand and brought it close to his bleeding wrist. He put it under the leaky faucet and let a few drops fall on the stem-filled weed. The pipe went back on the table. He took out a white bandage from the backpack and wrapped it around the new cut. He grabbed the pipe again and held it with the injured arm as he searched in his bag for a lighter.

Bic, pink, deadly. He winced, slightly, as the flame danced up. It held, a few inches above the lighter. He brought the pipe up to his mouth and held it there for a few seconds. He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. He took a few lung-filling inhales and held his breath in between. He was ready.

The blood sizzled and let off a coppery scent as it evaporated. The corners of his eyes started to water as he kept on inhaling. He burned through half the bowl before he finally gave out a dry, painful, cough. In between the spurts of coughing he managed enough half-hits to kill the bowl.

Red filled the corners of his vision. Thoughts started racing in and out but he let them pass without focusing on them. He heard the gate that led into the driveway creak. It was here.

A snout pushed the gate forward. Claudia hadn't locked it. It creaked as it swung and hit the fence. He ignored the creature as it went into the yard, he emptied the bowl and started to fill another.

Its hind legs were disturbingly wrong. Slender and far too long. Its head rested slightly lower than its tail. The coat was mostly grey but a brown smudge started at at the base of its tail and spread all the way to the head. It grew a lighter shade as it went up the creature's body. It's jaw a soft white. Snout dry-grass yellow.

-Ready for our lesson?- It asked him.

He lit the second bowl and took in a long drag that killed it. The red at the corners of his vision grew larger. The constant drum of a low E surfaced below the sounds of the suburban neighborhood.

"Yeah, I'm ready."