by Ross Anthony
Where the Stars End
Ross Anthony
Copyright © 2019 by Ross Anthony
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a media retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting of brief quotations for use in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. With the exception of brief mentionings of historical figures and the names and stories of victims of real life hates crimes (subject matter used solely out of respect), all other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any other resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Editor: Katie Galarno
“People may say you’re wrong, but only you know where the stars end, and my dearest friend, I hope you find it.”
- Ross Anthony
CONTENTS
Title Page
CONTENTS
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Love hasn’t a number, knows no faces, and speaks no words. It is like that of the universe, resplendent and fathomless, shining light upon those blessed enough to discover its glory.
However, all light casts shadows of darkness. Thus, awakening Fear from its deep slumber. It isn’t as blind or as muted as that of Love. In fact, Fear sees and hears contrast in all things, which in turn gives voice to hatred and begins to rally for crucifixion per one’s nonconformity.
In the present day, the light shines brighter than ever, giving life to fewer shadows. Though the shadows that remain are smaller, they are darker and rooted deep in the hidden trenches of our modern world. These last surviving shadows, now, most often come out of hiding to revel on Sunday and Election Day, waiting for the day in which they may engulf the world once again.
Admittedly, I was once ignorant to the darkness I describe.
I am one of the blessed individuals, in that I was free to splash around in Love’s luminescence without its shadowy side effects.
I, for the greater part of my life, have always known who I am, and I have always had the liberty of living my truth.
It was encouraged, actually.
Having been an only child raised by a young single mother, I knew hardship, but I never knew the hardship of Fear. I’d become frustrated at those around me who longed for “same love” but were too afraid of holding hands with their somatic duplicate. I couldn’t comprehend a force that was so strong that it had the ability to shackle people up within themselves. Even more so, I couldn’t empathize with those individuals going about their lives with such falseness and lack of courage. That is, until the Great Cleanse.
Understand, I am no hero.
I am merely a survivor.
One
The sun was shining bright on the golden sands of the western coast of Tempe, California. The sound of white-capped waves whooshed onto the shore. Overhead, flying seagulls sang, transforming the irregular beat of the ocean into a song. As I strode down the sidewalk at the top of the beach, thrilled laughter from beachgoers of all ages complemented nature’s tune.
Heading away from the coastline toward the main campus of New Westminster University, I entered the particularly barren crosswalk.
It was my first day as a college freshman. I had a messenger bag filled with educational necessities thrown over my shoulder, weighing my slender body down and pulling my gait slightly to the right. This caused me to lean awkwardly to the left to make up for the imbalance.
All the while, I couldn’t seem to shake my anxiety. I wasn’t one for large groups of people, particularly strangers, and walking around a campus and sitting in a room full of them was petrifying. A part of me had hoped for the comfort that comes from running into someone I had known from my days in high school. Still not ideal, but that would have set me at ease, perhaps.
In addition to my shyness, I was riddled with an unshakeable guilt. My mind flashed back to the eve of my eighteenth birthday.
After having set the table with food left over from the diner where my mom worked, we sat down at the heart of our home: the dining room.
“Mīlo,” she said lowly, as she reached her dishpan-hands across the table, “you’re my sun, the moon, and the stars. You know that, right?”
She looked at me with her sincere ocean blue eyes, and I remember her golden hair was still wrapped up in itself, forming a bun atop her head.
I nodded and reached a hand out as she softly grabbed hold.
When I was a child, she’d often repeat that phrase to me. “You’re my sun, the moon, and the stars.” It was a phrase she had picked up from her own mother, who’d adapted it from one of her favorite poets, E.E. Cummings. Whenever she’d say it, I always knew that it meant I had done something I probably shouldn’t have.
Naturally, I wasn’t particularly fond of being corrected, but it never made me feel unloved or less than. She always had a way of carrying the question with the utmost care and genuity.
Though this time was different. Her tone was solemn, and rather than proceeding with a lecture, she slid a folded piece of paper across the small wooden table.
“I want you to read this,” she said softly, without a smile. The lines around her mouth were indicative that she was in need of a break. “Not here, not right now,” she continued, “but I want you to read it…eventually.”
Her words and somber tone made me feel as though something was wrong. I picked up the folded paper and slipped it into my pocket.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll read it later. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is good. It’s just that you’re going to be eighteen tomorrow, and you’re going to be off to college shortly. You’re my baby, and I want you to always remember that you truly are my world.” She lifted her face into a loving motherly grin.
“Okay,” I replied, unconvinced. “Would you even tell me if something was wrong?”
“You bet,” she stated, matter-of-factly.
But she wouldn’t.
Over the next several months, she developed an increasingly menacing cough, which caused her conversation to grow more hoarse and breathless. Though, I didn’t pay too much concern. I assumed it was allergies.
However, time would prove otherwise. The day after my high school graduation, all of her years of hard working and insistence to avoid elevators finally caught up to her.
She would always take the apartment building stairs when she’d come and go, regardless of how she felt. One day on her way to work, her coughing turned to choking, causing her to lose consciousness and fall down the flight of stairs.
I found her moments later while on my way to the library.
Seeing her seemingly lifeless at the bottom of the stairwell shredded my insides.
She was all I had.
Afterward, she woke up in a hospital bed and finally admitted to me that on the day before my birthday, she had been diagnosed with stage II non-small cell lung cancer.
As it turned out, her cancer could be attributed to her years’ worth of smoke breaks, not just poor luck.
The news of her illness and smoking was startling to me. She was only 35 years old, and never once did she ever reek of cigarettes.
Now, I was off to better my future, while she sat at home suffering, fearing for her own. That is, if she would even have one at all.
Seemingly out of nowhere, the sound of a faint car horn grew closer, creeping deeper into my consciousness. The incessant “beep” brought me back to the fact that I was still in the crosswalk.
Just as I turned to see a black car with a red racing stripe speeding toward me, I heard a deep baritone voice shout, “Hey! Watch out!”
I felt my shirt stretch, as I was pulled forward, causing me to fall to my knees on the sidewalk. Pens, pencils, and books from my bag littered the dusty concrete. My insides raced and fluttered, as I looked to see the car blur past.
“You okay?” asked the man.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said curtly. I didn’t bother looking up, as I started to hastily gather my bag’s contents.
From my peripheral vision I saw that he knelt and started to help pick up my books.
“You can go now,” I thought, embarrassed and aggravated by the throbbing pain in my knees.
“Oh, Art History, eh?” He presented the small, hardcover book to me.
“Yeah,” I looked up to grab it from him.
Just as I saw his face, my body froze, and I felt my cheeks get hot. My thoughts left my mind, taking away all my words. I had seemingly forgotten how to breathe while once again, my insides began jumping and skipping.
His perfect black hair almost sparkled in the sunlight, spotlighting its immaculate trim and comb. His golden complexion was further highlighted by his slim fit white v-neck and bright pink shorts. Gentle flicks of dark chest hair peeked out from the neck of his shirt. From his jawline to his calves, he looked as though he’d been carved from marble. His gray eyes were his most striking feature, emitting gold flecks from their centers. They had a glow about them. I’d never seen anything as magnetizing. I imagined that if the sun hadn’t been shining, his eyes could light the night sky, which would undoubtedly stir envy out of the moon.
I was enamored.
We both stood up from kneeling. He was taller than me by about an inch or two, and his posture was impeccable. I was intimidated by the confidence in his stature and the high quality of the fabrics he wore. Embroidered on the heart of his shirt was a swirling “J,” the monogram of the high fashion brand Jessu.
He came from money.
Overwhelmed and now late for class, I brushed the dust off my jeans and re-saddled my bag over my shoulder. I ripped the book away from him and looked away quickly.
I then noticed the onlookers, and I began to flee the scene as quickly as possible.
“Uh, okay,” I heard him retort from behind me as I hurried away.
I was annoyed by the beautiful stranger, as well as by my own behavior.
“Maybe pay attention where you’re going next time,” he continued to exclaim.
I turned my head back a little as I continued forward. “Thanks for that,” I yelled back to him. Before I could look ahead, I collided into a passerby.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” screeched the woman.
“So sorry!”
I was red hot and long past the point of embarrassment, but I reassured myself it didn’t matter; they were strangers, and I wouldn’t be seeing any one of them again.
As I pushed past the excruciating episode, my thoughts suddenly jumped back to the car that nearly hit me. Its particular black and crimson red paint felt ominous as it raged down the street. It seemed to show no intention of slowing down, nor did it bother to swerve to avoid me in any way. In addition, the car didn’t fit in with any of the other standard white, blue, silver, and dusty yellow cars around the area.
Shaken by almost having ended up under the menacing car, I continued making my way toward New Westminster University.
The school was practically new, in that it had been established in the last fifteen years. It was structured in a decent neighborhood, only a few blocks away from my home, which was not the most lavish community within Tempe.
I had sometimes heard tourists compare us to a smaller metropolitan cross between New York City and San Diego. We had the west coast, but we also had the big cramped buildings, and as the girl I ran into proved, we had the attitude to match. Though, she was completely justified, as I was a jackass.
The expansive campus was made up of four buildings, all of which situated on classic Californian land. Palm trees sprouted up along the walkways, and healthy green grass covered everything that wasn’t concrete pavements. Of course, the beach was across the street, so the cool, salty breeze was a pleasant refreshment.
The sound of hurried sandals flip flopping on the curvy, rose-colored stone paths overtook my thoughts and increased the pound in my chest.
I was still late.
I bolted past groups of peers chatting under the numerous palm trees as I hustled through the pillared and arched doorway of the building.
Perspiration added to my nerves, because knowing that I had visible sweat beading on my temples made me increasingly stressed. It was a vicious cycle.
I knew that everyone would be sitting in the room, silent, waiting for an interruption that would soon be me. All eyes would be on me, an overwhelmed and frazzled structure of a person.
Inside, the halls were dim, gray, and quiet, with the exception of my shoes, which squeaked with haste on the marbled floor.
I rustled around in my messenger bag to grab the paper listing all of my class information.
I continued forward while my hand navigated through the now-jumbled contents of my bag. I fumbled around items looking for a folded paper. “Chapstick. Pen. No. Notebook, No. Another pen. Maybe it’s the same pen, I don’t know. No.”
I wedged my hand between several books before eventually finding the paper itinerary at the bottom of my bag. I unfolded the paper square. “Math 202-Room 213 1:30 pm M-W-F.” I folded the paper up again and slipped it back into my bag.
“It’s Monday,” I thought, looking at my watch, “1:43 pm,” and I was only on the first floor. I hurried to the stairwell, which rested on the opposite end of the hallway, and started climbing.
“I’m not ready for stairs. I should do more cardio.”
I wiped the moisture from my forehead with my hand and dried it on my jeans. “Why’d I wear jeans?”
I looked at my wrist. It was 1:48.
The second floor was particularly brighter. Long, rectangular windows lined the outside of the hallway, casting shadows of the window grilles on the marbled floor. I hurried around corners, lost and regretting not doing the campus tour. There were a few people chatting quietly with one another as I passed through.
I turned to look at the room numbers. “207...209...211…” I was getting closer.
Finally, I was facing room 213. My stomach twisted as I reached for the door knob. From inside, I could hear a dominating voice vibrating through the wood of the door.
There was no reflection to confirm, but I knew I was covered in dirt from the fall and sweat from hurrying. My hair was surely damp and more out of place than usual.
I looked at my watch one last time. It was 1:52.
I turned the knob and blew through the doorway.
The room went silent.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” asked a level voice, causing me to stop in my tracks. Her tone made the question sound rhetorical, and if not rhetorical, I could feel that she didn’t really care to know who I was.
I looked to the stern, dominant figure at the front of the room. Standing in all of her authoritative glory was Dr. Lesley Nolan. She was tall, slender, and proud in her maroon pantsuit. The dark stubble covering her buzzcut-styled head screamed intimidation all on its own.
She was a confident woman of knowledge, and proud of it.
“Mīlo Barkley,” I squirmed.
“Well, Mīlo Barkley,” she said, crossing her arms, “This is not how you enter my classroom. Come back Wednesday when you’re ready to be on time,” she said, pursing her
thin lips at me.
I stared blankly at her, trying to remain as silent and motionless as possible, hoping that maybe the room full of people couldn’t see me.
“You may go now,” she stated. “You’re disrupting the students who showed up on time and wasting their financial investment.”
The class snickered.
I tucked my tail between by legs, pocketed what little bit of my ego I had left, and turned out of the classroom.
“Door, please.”
Without turning to face the room, I reached my arm back and pulled the door closed behind me.
I was humiliated. Again.
I pulled my schedule back out of my bag. My next class was Art History at 3.
I began my trek across campus to the Modern Arts Center located in Huntington Hall.
Booths for fraternities and other student organizations lined the pathways between buildings. Greek letters covered banners hanging from the front of foldable card tables. One group in particular caught my attention more so than the others.
A group of young men gathered around a table, chest bumping one another and flexing in their matching tank tops for the world around them to see. Their testosterone-fueled hooting and hollering squashed the voices from the tables nearby. This was not only a call for submission, but more so, it was a tactic to claim their dominance and invoke fear in timid people such as myself. Though to my surprise, their animalistic behavior was working. They were gaining a robust audience, mostly other men who sought the glories of what it meant to be in a fraternity such as theirs.
They called themselves Alpha Omega Psi. Their banner had the corresponding Greek letters painted in red on a black poster board, which mirrored the tank tops worn by all. The color scheme invoked the same unease I felt about the speeding car.
As I made an attempt to ignore the racket, one of the burliest members jumped around me and “woofed” in my face.
I ignored it and kept forward, leaving the barking behind me.
