Pork Soda [LoE]

CW: This piece contains swearing, intrusive thoughts, and themes of PTSD and general mental health. Viewer discretion advised.

This story was a collaboration with my friend! They created and own Tyler. Credits to them for allowing me to use their character and helping me with writing him!

He died. You watched him. He died and you hallucinated his return five years after you killed him. After you dropped him. After you failed.

He’s dead. No, he’s not. No, he’s not!

Check. He won’t be here. Won’t be anywhere. He's dead, Murderer. I don’t think I’m breathing. My hand barely grasps the knob— when did I move for the door?— to open the door to my room into the dark, quiet hall outside.

He’s dead. They’re lying for you when you say he’s alive. They think I’m insane (haven’t they always?).

He’s dead. No number of staggered steps down the hall will change that. My nails dig into the fading paint on the entryway frame. He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.

He’s dead. He’s…

“You know what? Fuck you and your hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue!”

“You literally passed it earlier! You could’ve taken it, pendejo!”

…playing Monopoly. With your boyfriend best friend in the dead of night. The dead of night on…fuck knows what day it is. It’s hot, though.

I can’t see ghosts. Chris can’t see ghosts. Alive. Alive. He’s alive. He’s alive and calling your best friend a dumbass in Monopoly. Focus. Focus. I think I can breathe. I lift my nails out of the wood, bring my hand lower to rest on the entry frame instead (my hands were numb before, I realize as I move them). I feel a drop on my cheek and promptly brush it away. There’s wetness against my skin, though, that one drop couldn’t have caused on its own. Had I been crying that much?

“Because I was trying to land on the Boardwalk.”

“Which you also didn’t get, by the way.”

Chris lunges across the coffee table– remarkably, none of the pieces on the board go flying– and seizes the front of Tyler’s shirt, who bursts into laughter.

“Listen here you little– Vick!”

Chris’ silver eyes flick up to me and I freeze. Tyler attempts to turn around, which forces Chris to let him go. He briefly loses his balance and steadies himself with his hand on the ground. It gives me a few seconds to force the lingering tears out of my eyes before he can see them. Alive. Alive with the gayest hair I’ve ever seen– dark, messy, down almost past his neck, a stark contrast from…nope, shut up, don’t think about that. He’s alive now. Alive calling your best friend a dumbass over Monopoly in the dead of night. Alive.

His eyes meet mine and he grins. “Wassup, Vick!”

I can’t think of a verbal response, but I manage a smile back, and it must suffice because he looks back over to Chris to resume laying into him– “You know, you just have to roll better, man. I mean–”

“What are you doing up so late?” Chris asks, cutting him off.

“I can’t sleep,” I reply after considering the answer, then hastily add, “Probably the coffee, whenever I last had any.”

He stares at me suspiciously for a long moment, but sighs and spares me from any other questions. He’ll ask me later, I know, and he won’t be surprised when I tell him the truth.

“Do you want to play?” He offers, loosely gesturing to the board behind him and Tyler.

“No,” I say too quickly. “I’m not going to focus.”

“Do you want to watch, then?”

Tyler chimes in, “Yeah, watch me kick his ass?”

“Oh, you’re a bitch.” Chris feigns a punch to his face. Tyler cracks up again.

“I’ll watch,” I decide. “Why not?”

The two take back their original spots at either end of the board. I sit centered to the table, against the couch instead of on it. I pull my sketchpad from the Void.

“Güey, you gonna pay up or nah?” Tyler’s at it again.

“Already did.”

“Eh? You did?”

“Yes, fututor! Now roll.”

They go back and forth. I pay attention for a bit, trying to figure out who’s where on the track to winning. They ping-pong with silly insults and false compliments. I think Chris nearly throws the dice at Tyler once who, of course (of course?), is completely unfazed. At some point, I tune it out, and my gaze lingers more on my sketchbook than the active game, though I periodically glance up long enough to work on my sketch of the scene– Chris’ long ponytail (he refuses to cut his hair in any capacity), the consistent scowl on his face when he misses a move, him repeatedly pushing up the sleeves on his Marvel hoodie because they’re too long and the hoodie’s too big but he insisted on buying it anyway. Dumbass, I think with a smirk.

He’s easy. So is the coffee table and gameboard. When I glance up to reference Tyler, I freeze. Again. The Tyler in my head and the Tyler at the coffee table are two different people.

No, not different. Not that different…I think. His red ochre eyes still pop against his amber skin. His dark hair still frames it, it just…was never that long. It was never on his neck like that. Not when I knew him. He didn’t have those dark horns on the top of his head, either, nor the matching patch over his eye. None of that existed then. His accent’s faded, too. It must have. I used to make fun of it. He did the same with mine. I pretended to punch him once when we were fucking around, pinned him against the wall inadvertently, laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe.

(“Why can’t we laugh now like we did then?”)

That was when it was fun, fighting to breathe in the middle of the night. And I’d clipped that stupid silver butterfly clip into the front of his hair and for a moment the moonlight caught its–

Wings.

My gaze snaps back to the sketchpad. I’ve outlined his wings. The wings he doesn’t fucking have anymore. Large, fantastic black wings shimmering in shades of blue and purple and green like a raven’s and they’re gone.

So fantastic, yet he couldn’t save himself.

It must have been from some sort of attack. Perhaps it happened when…

Then again, you couldn’t save him either.

(“Let’s climb the cliff edge and jump again.”)

“Heus, Etch-A-Sketch.”

A hand pushes my sketchpad down and I jump, gripping my pencil like I would my dagger, but reality snaps back into focus and it’s Chris’ hand gently pushing the paper down to get my attention. I release a breath I fail to realize I’d been holding and loosen my grip on the pencil.

“I’m grabbing a soda for myself and Tyler. Do you want one?” His question takes a moment to register.

“Uhm, yeah,” I finally answer. “Sure. Gratias.” I force a smile. He points over his shoulder at Tyler.

“Make sure the fututor doesn’t cheat, ius?” He adds with a smirk while walking off. Tyler flips him off behind his back.

It’s silent. Tyler’s at the gameboard and I’m gripping my sketchpad. When had it been silent between us? I don’t think it ever was. It can’t have ever been. Not that I recall. Close enough to tap his shoulder but not to ask what happened to his wings or get the full story of where he’d been or to–

“Whatcha drawing?” His voice saves me from my thoughts this time. I stare at him for a second, then flick my eyes back to the sketchpad, the wings I’d drawn still mocking me.

“One moment,” I find myself saying. I flip to the dying eraser on the pencil and set to quickly erasing the wings. I’m not explaining them, not telling him that, in the back of my mind, he still has them, and sometimes I still see the silhouette of them on him in a passing glance and I have to double back only for them to not exist. I leave no trace of them on the paper (I wish I could do that for my mind). I turn the sketchpad toward him. His eyes widen slightly and he grins.

“Hey, that’s really cool! You draw people!” He leans in slightly to study the sketch closer. I don’t have to force a smile this time.

“Thanks! Took a while to figure it out and get it to be not a mess but, well, you know.”

That was fantastic standard English, Victoria.

“You improved a lot, too,” he mentions, the comment catching me off guard. “I can see it. You used to draw a lot, no?.”

“Still do,” I manage after mentally fumbling for a moment, “and thank you. I hadn’t really thought it changed that much. Well—” I pause, consider it for a moment— “I can draw hands quicker now,” I joke, and Tyler laughs.

“Soda!” Chris appears leaning over the back of the couch with the can above my head. I place my sketchpad on the ground and take it from him.

“Gratias.” I pop it open. He takes his place at the game board and slides another can to Tyler.

“Thanks, man,” he says while popping the tab.

“Do either of you have the time?” I realize I still have no idea how late (early?) it is.

“We’re after the witching hour, that much I know,” Chris responds, opening his own soda and sipping it.

“Hot as balls, too. I mean, fuck, man, why’s it 80° and the sun’s not even out?” Tyler grabs the dice to continue the next round.

At least that wasn’t another thing in my head.

“That’s why I despise summer,” I sigh.

“Hey, ‘tis my turn, is it not?” Chris puts down his soda.

“Eh? It’s mine! You had to get up to get the soda, so you went already, pendejo.”

“Carissimi Dii supra, what the fuck is pendejo?”

“Dumbass!” Tyler and I answer in unison. His gaze snaps over to me.

"Hey, you remember that!" He exclaims with yet another bright grin (wow, I really missed that smile). It's infectious, I swear.

"A few curse words here and there," I reply with a giggle (Shadow will absolutely not let me hear the end of that).

“…fuck you guys,” Chris mutters.

Alive, and maybe we’ll be fine.