The Red Thread (3 page)

Alex eyes me. “Hey, you okay?” he whispers, so Tommy doesn’t hear.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

I bring the beer to my lips, and I grimace as the abhorrent liquid slides down my throat.

“Don’t be such a pussy, Jess.”

Why must Tommy always call everyone a pussy? I think he thinks it makes him seem tough. Honestly, it just sounds like a boy acting like a man to me.

I watch as Alex takes a sip, and I follow suit, this time taking a longer gulp than before. A part of me hopes that the longer sips I take, the quicker I can finish off this beer. I finally finish, and when Tommy offers me another, I decline.

“Good. More for me.” Tommy beams with a smirk.

He lets out a long belch, much to Alex’s dismay. He’s always been a refined man.

“Classy,” I utter.

“Shut up,” Tommy hisses at me, saliva spitting out between his clenched teeth. He’s also a lightweight.

He grabs a beer and tears into this one as well. Alex and I look at each other, and I can see the worried look in his eyes already. Alex is still on his first beer. I watch as Tommy smiles and laughs. He looks so happy and free, as if nothing can touch him. He’s on the top of the world, and nothing can hurt him. I want to feel that way.

I take another beer.

“That’s the spirit,” my redheaded friend screams in my face. Tommy looks as if he wants to dance.

The one thing I like about being Tommy’s friend is that he doesn’t care I’m depressed. He treats me just like a normal guy. My family walks on eggshells with me, and so does everyone else in this damn town. Even Alex acts like I am about to break if he doesn’t look after me every single moment we’re together. But not Tommy.

I open the beer and take one long swig. The warm liquid is just as bad as before, but this time I am prepared for it. By the time I finish another beer, it feels as if I’m floating. I can feel everything I’m doing, but it’s as if I’m not actually in my body. I guess I’m a lightweight.

“I have more beer in the car,” Tommy slurs, “should I get it?”

“Why not,” I say, trying to get my vocal cords to work right. Even trying to form a word is becoming difficult.

“I’m done drinking for the night,” Alex states.

“Good. You can drive, then.”

I watch as Alex rolls his eyes. “Fine.” I can hear the uneasiness in his voice. He’s never comfortable when Tommy drinks. And now, combined with me drinking, he has to deal with both of our fucked-up selves. I feel the seed of guilt plant itself in my gut.

Tommy stumbles back with another six-pack of beer. When did he go back to the car? The two of us tear into another six-pack, and we manage to finish it off between the two of us. I hear Tommy laughing as he falls to the ground, which only causes him to laugh more.

I’m not laughing, though. Why aren’t I laughing? Shouldn’t alcohol make me feel good? Instead I just feel worse. I look down at my fourth beer and lay it on the ground, only half-empty.

“I think I’m done,” I whisper. I don’t think anyone hears me, but soon Alex is by my side, and I shiver as he puts his warm hand on my back.

“Are you okay?”

I simply nod, having trouble trying to find the words. I look up at the sky. Not one star can be seen through the clouds and pollution. Where are the stars? I want to see the stars.

“Stars….”

“What?” Alex asks me.

“The stars… they make you realize how little you truly are.”

I don’t know what I’m even saying, but it’s like I can’t control a thing I’m doing. This must be what an out-of-body experience is like, or as close to one as I’ll ever get to.

“Jess, what are you trying to say?”

“The universe is so big and so vast. Our planet is huge to us, but in the galaxy it’s pretty small, and then our galaxy is like dust compared to the rest of the universe. The universe is so immense. If our own galaxy is so tiny, why do we matter? Why do we exist? There is no point for us to be around. We’re so small and meaningless.”

And then I don’t know what happens. I feel tears work their way down my cheeks. I taste the salt as they slide over my chapped lips.

Alex pulls me into a hug.

“It’s okay, Jess, it’s okay. I’m here.”

He rubs my back as I keep my arms to the side. They kind of just dangle there like limp noodles.

“Why am I crying? I want to be laughing like Tommy.”

Alex and I look over to see him passed out asleep on the ground. That causes us to smirk.

“Well, he’s not laughing anymore. Alcohol is a depressant, and it’s just having a negative reaction with your medication. I’m gonna drive you and Tommy home.”

He helps me up, putting an arm around my waist and helps me into the passenger seat of the old red convertible. I wait there, laying my head on the glass as he carries Tommy into the backseat and lays him there. I never realized how strong Alex is. Tommy’s snoring overtakes the car, and I can’t help but slightly laugh. He sounds like a trombone.

Alex sits behind the steering wheel of the car, and I jolt as I feel the car jerk into motion. Alex drives very slow, making sure to stay under the speed limit. He turns on the radio, keeping the volume low. It’s an oldies station. The Beatles are playing. I love the Beatles. When I was little, my dad used to fix cars for a hobby. I used to help him, but every time we would fix up some old car, he would grab his radio and play a Beatles CD. We would get greasy, but we had fun. Then he’d take me out, and we’d get some bad fast food that probably clogged up our arteries. Those were some of my happiest memories with my father as a kid.

Dad and I lost that bond. I just think he didn’t know how to act with me anymore because of my increasing depression as I grew older. I became an alien to him, the son he didn’t want. Dad doesn’t even fix up cars anymore. It’s like he lost his enjoyment for cars when I lost my enjoyment for life.

With my head still pressed against the glass, I close my eyes, and I listen to the soft melody of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and wonder what it would be like for someone to hold my hand right now.

I WAKE
up in my own bed, with no memories of how I got here. Tommy would say this is the sign of a good night, but for me I would much rather remember what I did with my life. My curtains are closed, and a water bottle sits beside my bed. A Post-it note is stuck to it.

For your hangover.

Drink lots of water.

—Alex

I grab the water bottle, and as the warm liquid seeps through my body, I can’t help but drink more. It feels so good, almost like I haven’t had water in years. I put the bottle down, completely empty, and wipe my lips with the back of my pale, bony hand.

I stand up, my bare toes on the soft blue carpet. I drag myself to the window and prepare myself to look outside. I pull apart the curtains, and the sun blinds me, burning into my retinas like a laser.

“Fuck me.” I can’t help but spit out. “Shit.”

I quickly close the curtains, and I curl back up in bed. I look over at the clock to see that it is still pretty early. I don’t have to open at work today, so I can just relax a bit more. I close my eyes and bring the blanket over my head.

I really have no memory of going to sleep. I’m guessing Alex put me into my bed. I don’t even have a memory of taking my antidepressants last night. I’m supposed to take them every night right before bed, and then I take another antidepressant in the morning. Plus there is my medication for anxiety and then another for sleeping. I could open up a pharmacy right from my own bedroom. Skipping one night won’t hurt. What’s the worst that will happen, I’ll kill myself? And I wonder why no one finds my sense of humor funny.

After taking my morning pills, I finally drag myself away from my bed and find myself under the hot water of the shower. The water is soothing as it flows over my skin. I wash away the stench of alcohol, and dirt spirals down the drain. After my shower finishes, I wrap my soft cotton towel around my skinny waist. The mirror above the sink is foggy, so I wipe my hand across it only to find my pale face staring back at me. I put my black-framed glasses on, and I look at the young man staring back at me from the mirror. His skin is so pale, he could almost pass off as a corpse, and his hair is dark, almost black. His face is thin, and his body is emaciated. I can see the ribs peeking through the flesh. Along the sides of his body and arms are tons of little scars. Past cuts he has done to himself. Cuts he did to stop the thoughts in his head. They put those thoughts to rest for a tiny bit. But instead of defeating the darkness inside, it just quenched its thirst, and it wanted more blood.

My sapphire-blue eyes stare back from the mirror, the same eyes my mother has. For all my life I’ve heard how beautiful my eyes are. I should thank my mom someday for giving me one nice thing.

“Jess, are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while,” a concerned voice asks from the other side of the locked door.

I sigh. “Yeah, Mom. I’m okay.”

I finish drying off and brush my teeth. I walk back to my bedroom, keeping a hand on my towel so it doesn’t slip down my too-skinny waist. By the time afternoon comes, I’m dressed and I’m on my way to work. Mom asks if I need a ride, but I just tell her I’ll walk.

Walking there I try to ignore the stares of the townspeople. Living in Wilshire can be hell. It’s an incredibly small town, one of those storybook-looking towns where everyone knows each other. This also means everyone knows one another’s business, aka my suicide attempt. Ever since I got out of the hospital, I have had to deal with the stares and the whispers. It’s like I’m some freak show for the entire town to judge and laugh at. Sometimes it drives me so crazy. I want to just give them the show they want and scream for all of them to burn in hell, if there is one. I’m saved from their unnerving stares by the sight of the bookshop. It’s tucked away in between a café and a barbershop.

The bookshop is already open by the time I get there. I walk in to find one of my coworkers already there, Laurie Thompson. She’s a cute, mousy girl, around eighteen. Her dark, curly brown hair is kept back in a ponytail, and she wears a pair of oversized glasses on her nose. Her sweater is a bit too big for her, and her skirt goes down to her ankles.

“Hiya, Jess,” she says in a sweet voice.

“Hey, Laurie. How are you today?”

“I’m well. Peter is in his office.”

I’m sure with a bottle of whiskey at hand. I walk to a wooden door in the back corner of the shop and knock.

“What do you want?” I hear Peter shout in an exhausted voice.

“It’s Jess. I clocked in. What do you want me to do?” I say through the door.

At first I’m only met by silence, but then I hear him respond, “Laurie is ringing. You can make sure the shop is put together.”

I walk away from the door to leave him to whatever he was doing before. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I might feel bad for the poor schmuck. I walk up to the cash register to find Laurie is already back there. She has a book in her hands. We are two of only three employees that work at The Book Revue. The other employee is a girl named Jill Sawyer. She’s a college graduate who is living back at home. Yeah, the system really fucked her over. She has a degree in English, but instead of a job, she is left in debt. I went to college for English too, but I had to leave school during freshman year for my extended hospital stay, and I just haven’t gone back.

I take my beige canvas bag off my shoulder, and I lay it on the floor underneath the cash register.

“I’ll guard it with my life,” Laurie attempts at a joke. A for effort, at least.

“Thanks, Laurie.”

I look around the shop to see no one around. “Busy day today.” I am met by Laurie’s cute little giggle.

I grab a metal cart, already stacked with books, and I roll it through the small building. I place each book carefully on their shelves. When I see a book out of order, I pull it out and add it to the cart so I can make sure it’s in the right place. I notice that a lot of the books have pages torn or folded over. Damn people. Everyone is so used to electronic reading that no one knows how to take care of a book these days. You need to show them care. Books are fragile.

The familiar bell of the shop door jingles. I hear Laurie welcome them. I don’t hear a response back to her. Most of the customers don’t really respond when you try to talk to them. I tend to ignore many of the customers, so I can just focus on what really matters here—the books.

I continue pushing the cart through the small aisles, and I finally come to the nonfiction aisle, my least favorite. I’m not the biggest history aficionado. As I roll the cart around the corner, I notice that there is a young man in the section. He sits on the floor, cross-legged. He holds a book in his hands. As he hears the sound of my cart, he looks up, and I can’t help but stop dead in my tracks. The cart comes to a screeching halt. He has light brown hair, which falls into a pair of gray-blue eyes. His skin is not pale like mine, but not quite tan either. He gives me a small lopsided smile, and I feel my heart pound like a jackhammer in my body.

“Hey,” I force myself to say. I even manage a small smile.

He doesn’t respond. A blush rises to his cheeks as his smile widens.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

Instead of responding, he just shows me the cover of the book. It’s a book about the art of violin. I wait for him to say something, but he just continues to stare at me. It looks as if he wants to say something, but he can’t find the words. I open my mouth, but nothing seems to form. His face continues to redden, and the smile drops. He sighs as he looks down to the ground.

“Well, um, if you need anything, I’ll be around,” I add to the lack of conversation. He looks back up and gives me a small smile. I wonder if he can’t talk?

He nods, and I continue to roll my cart away, totally ignoring if any of the books on my cart belong in this section. When I turn the corner, I chance a peek to see that he is still watching me. I’m tempted to run back and ask him for his hand in marriage, but I figure that might be too forward. I’ll just stick to my creepier form of flirting, which involves plenty of staring with a bit of stalking.