Gravity (4 page)

I think about all the times I wasn’t as
careful as I should’ve been. What was I doing wrong? I’ve gotten
too comfortable. How could I fix this? I can't—I can only hope I'm
wrong.

"What do
you
wanna watch tonight?" Josh
asks.

Since when did
it matter? He turned the TV off anyway.
"I don't know. I'm pretty tired. I'll end up falling
asleep." I play with a loose string. Josh is watching me too
closely, and then leans in too closely. His energy heats my left
side like a growing fire.

I get
up.

"What's up with
you today?" Josh says.

"Nothing, I'm
just tired," I massage my neck. The heat is stuck to my skin like a
lingering kiss.

"All day you've
been acting weird. And I’m not talking about Eric Anderson." Josh
stands.

My
insides are starting to boil and my
skin is vibrating. It feels good and I want to feel more, but Josh
is my friend.

He
steps closer examining my face for
something.

I
exhale deeply from the burning
sensation. Josh shouldn’t be this close. My hands want to reach
out, but I clench them at my sides.

"I knew it. You
can feel it too." Josh steps closer.

"What?"
I try to look surprised, but I'm a
terrible liar.

"Oh, come
on,
Gabriel, every time I get
close, you automatically back away. There's a feeling. It isn't
just about being touched is it?"

I
avoid his gaze. Backing away every
time Josh approaches until my back hits the bathroom
door.

“Gabriel. What is
this?” Josh’s voice shakes.

I
feel my friend’s heat wash over
me.

“It’s like my skin is
being pulled and my blood rushes forward. It’s you. Isn’t it?”

It’
s unavoidable. I'm
about to lose another friend. Josh’s breathing picks up and I watch
my friend’s eyes search mine.

"Gabriel, you
know what this is
, don't
you?"

I
do
n't know how to answer, my
body is starting up and I can feel Josh invading.

“You’re doing it.
You're making this feel—"

“Josh, please—"

The sound of his
voice doesn't sound friendly, it sounds erotic. I hate it.

This unwanted
arousal
increases like a
volcano ready to erupt. He's watching me too closely. I have to
look away. It’s hard to hold back as tears flooding my eyes. I'm
praying Josh doesn't touch me.
Oh God, please not him.

Josh
touches me shoulder. The
magnetic
force is hard to hold
back, like a tsunami it's about to force itself on my best friend’s
body.

Josh
jump
s back at the sudden knock
at the door, and I slip into the bathroom. I hear Josh's mom tell
him my clothes are clean and if we wanted any snacks.

I
sit on the floor with the door
locked. After hearing Mrs. Masterson leave, Josh attempts the
doorknob.

“Please let me in. I
want to—"

I
feel something. With the door between
them, Josh stays on the other side quietly. But I know he’s basking
in a chemical cocktail of curiosity and desire. Delighted in it, I
lean against the door where I can feel Josh more intensely without
hurting him. A rush of excitement almost makes me open the door,
but I wrestle with it. I know Josh wants sexual contact. It's a
physical reaction to me Josh has no control over.

My
legs won’t stop moving, a need for
the sexual fix is making my body protest the separation. I've never
cut-off the cycle when it starts. I'll have to open the door at
some point. As I wrestle my urges, Josh giving in to his. I'm
making Josh touch himself. My guilt begins to overtake the sexual
desire and I move into the tub away from the door. The space
between us will give them both a chance to collect
ourselves.

An
hour passes before I approach the
door to feel if Josh’s presence still lurks on the other side. I
don't sense him. Opening the bathroom door, I see Josh sitting on
the floor, in the shadows. He has his arms resting on his knees,
his face an undefinable in the dark.

My
clothes are just outside the
bathroom, so I grab them and dress. I leave the bathroom while
Josh's eyes follow me. I decide that staying here will be wrong, so
I grab my backpack and leave.

Gabriel

I'm
relieved to see my stepfather's truck
in the driveway. Garden cherubs and flowers make the house look
innocent enough for anyone to call home—not me. This place holds
hurtful memories.

Walking into
the house, more religious angels, crosses and Jesus
invade every surface. This isn't my
home. My God fearing mother believes heart and soul that I'm not
her son, but something evil. Often spitting random prayers under
her breathe when I'm in the house. There have been multiple
incidences she'd invited priests over to exorcise me. She claims
I'm possessed with demons. I remember vividly at eight years old,
strapped to a chair as they poured holy water and shoved crosses in
my face assuming it would drive out whatever was inside of
me.

At this point
in
my life, I wish my mother
was right. If only the burden could be removed. I know it’s my
fault. She feels and thinks unnatural things for me. Unnatural
schizoid thoughts about your son will lead you to think he's a
demon. Maybe I am. I don't feel bad for her. I don't feel anything
for her. She’s ignored what has been happening under her roof with
me for years; things that cannot be undone.

I'm
older now, coming and going as I
please. I'm rarely home. If an unfamiliar car is in the driveway
then I have to find another place to sleep for the night. Tonight I
have nowhere to sleep.

My
mother immediately starts her praying
ritual, following me around the house at a safe distance, splashing
holy water, holding her rosary tight enough to leave an impression
in her palm. My foot hits the stairs and she backs away. She never
follows. She knows the
devil's room
is
upstairs.

My
bedroom is peaceful without her
presence, but it still isn't what I'd call heaven. Terrible things
happened to me there. Things that happened in my bed are the worst;
I’ll never sleep in it again. The nest of dingy pillows and
unwashed blankets on the floor is my new bed, but even the floor is
tainted.

My
stepfather loathes me, wishing I was
more like Daniel, my older brother, but it didn’t stop him from
comparing my
beautiful eyes
to my
brother's. Daniel left; leaving me alone to fend off my
stepfather.

I lock
the door with a deadbolt. Now-a-days
my stepfather doesn't bother me; he’s never home. When he is, it’s
time to leave.

I look at
my
self in the mirror. My
piercing green eyes are tired; I can't bear to look at them too
long. Beautiful eyes are what my stepfather liked about Daniel, a
characteristic he and I share. My jet black hair is damp and my
skin clean for now from Josh's house.

I
settle on the unwashed pile. The
musty smell of a blanket that hasn’t seen the washer in years is
draped across my clothed body. My legs curl and my sneakers stay on
to keep my feet warm.

I'm
still wearing Josh’s
underwear.

I
stuff my face in a bunched shirt I'm
using as a pillow. The crying tires me to thoughtlessness until my
eye lids are too heavy and my breathing evens out to
sleep.

***

Gabriel

Without
my backpack, and more importantly
without my hoodie, I brace myself. I'm standing on Main Street well
aware that I'm without the one thing that usually protects me from
prying eyes—
but
there are no people.

The sun is a
little past its peak. The street is empty of the usual lunchtime
hustle and bustle.

I
habitually stuff my hands in my
pockets and my shoulders hunch in attempt to hide even though there
seems to be no one to hide from. I glance up at a shop window only
to see my reflection doing just the opposite.

My
mirror image stands tall with his
shoulders confidently back. The green in his eyes are too bright
for it to be mine and the sinister grin doesn’t display correctly
my own quivering lips. My reflection's hand rubs his chest and digs
his fingernails where his heart is.

I
look down at my own body in which my
hands have not moved from my pockets.

My
reflection's hand breaks flesh and
reaches into his chest. My hands retreat from my pockets and touch
the area over my rapidly beating heart. My reflection pulls out his
coated black hand. The blood-like substance oozes out of my
reflection’s chest until his blue jeans are dyed in the unnatural
shade of black.

Instinctively,
my feet move away from the window of illusion to notice that black
blood is seeping out around the window frame, dripping onto the
pavement at my feet.

I
stumble back as the blackness pools
quickly. It creeps toward me. My mirror image's black blood is
endlessly flooding out of his chest. His mouth opens and more of
the evil liquid seeps out.

I
run.

A brief look
behind
me, the blood paints
the walkway into tar. My own shadow is following me. The other shop
windows are blackening as if the reflection is also chasing
me.

I reach
an intersection. All of the stores
close their doors and shut their blinds. I walk into the street to
watch the sidewalks change from pavement to black tar. The sun is
veiled in dark clouds; the warm afternoon turns to a cold night in
an instant. There’s nowhere else to run without stepping into the
fearsome shadows.

Everything is
painted in darkness—except one door. An antique shop is untainted
and the path to it unchanged. I walk to it with the dark substance
pulsing at the edges of the path; frightened of the light casting
from the shop's lamp.

I go
into the shop and immediately feel
relief in the atmosphere. Nothing is oozing anywhere. I peek out of
the door window. It seems night has fallen and Main Street looks
normal for the exception of no people; nothing is going on outside.
All traces of the nightmarish scene have disappeared. I'm not
taking any chances and decide to hang out in the shop for a
bit.

A pile of bowls wobbles when my elbow hits
them. A deer horn coat rack nearly takes out an eye. I'm used to
places like this; often browsing to delay the time before having to
go home. It’s seems like an ordinary place, yet it feels not—maybe
because it isn’t contaminated with the black stuff.

I
follow a narrow path among the
disarray of items. The labyrinth of stuff leads to the back of the
store where the shop keeper catches my eye. All shop keepers tend
to look the same; cookie cutter old men with reading glasses, but
this one is different. He looks too young and too attractive to fit
the mold.

I
usually avoid the counter where the
shopkeeper sits. They usually watch me browse, thinking I might
steal their junk. Right now all I want to do is go to the counter
to take a closer look at the handsome man.

The shopkeeper is tending to another boy, so
I wait patiently at the very far end of the counter. As I get
closer to listen, I get a good look at the man behind the counter.
His simple black clothes, black hair is a lot like mine. His eyes
are the most striking—gray, no wait blue. No. I swear that they’re
changing color. It’s so fast I miss the transition from one to the
next. What's even stranger than the rainbow eyes is the attraction
I feel toward him; a need to know this man like I would a pretty
girl.

I
approach the counter and overhear the
boy's name—Alex. He reminds me of Josh with the dirty blond hair,
only taller. I can tell from the way he looks, he's one of those
popular boys girls seem to naturally flock too. He has an older
look and a more defined jaw than boys my age. The way he stands
shows he's a confident guy; probably plays sports. Yes, this Alex
is the ones girls want. Alex browses at the various weaponry and
war collectibles displayed in the counter case.

Alex points to
a dark green
helmet.

The shopkeeper
smiles and opens the case to retrieve it.

"It's an M1
helmet; it wa
s standard to the
American military for forty years. This one is from 1941 to '42.
Check the shell liner," the shopkeeper smiles. I like his voice and
I want him to keep talking. The register of his voice is just as
pleasing as the sight of him.

Alex flips the
helmet over. I see on the fiber liner a faint double “A”. Alex
places it on his head. The boy's face lights up.