by Leah Thomas
I stumbled toward the overturned bus. People swarmed on all sides of me, people who looked like one another hurrying out of houses that looked like one another and standing in the street and some of them rushing, rushing better than I was because my feet weren’t being feet—
“Call an ambulance!”
“Trying! My phone’s dead!”
The phone killer strikes again. What would Liz say?
“People inside, and she warned me that people in the real world just hurt each other and oh god do you think any kids in there had a pacemaker—?”
Bridget grabbed my arm. Her grip felt so cold it almost alleviated the throbbing in the back of my head, but my eyes didn’t focus right when I tried to glare at her.
“It’s my fault, it’s my fault, I have to get them out and Auburn-Stache should have left me at home and oh god Liz wouldn’t love me now and Moritz—Moritz wouldn’t, it’s my fault—”
“Why’s he saying that?” Brian wincing, Brian standing. “What’s he mean?”
Bridget pushed me down to sitting and the spike in my head twisted and suddenly I didn’t have the energy to stand anyhow. I watched the steaming bus turn orange as pink dawn arrived, watched neighbors climbing the sides, trying to pull kids out through the emergency windows and the back door.
“There’s a lot of noise,” I think I mumbled. “I wonder what Moritz would see.”
Bridget looked at me without any expression at all.
Brian maybe looked at me funny, but then again maybe he was in shock. “Oh, shit. Here. I got this back . . . sorry.”
She pushed her heart away.
“Stop babbling, electro-sensitive boy.” The heartless girl looked me in the eyes. “If only you could take your heart out and run.”
I heard sirens in the distance.
Maybe Bridget didn’t want me crashing an ambulance this time. Or maybe she didn’t want me seizing.
But either option would mean, Moritz, that Bridget wanted things.
She decked me and I was gone.
And that’s why I didn’t want to bring the story up to the present.
Ha! Because I nearly killed people, Moritz! You got me!
You got me.
I wasn’t trying to keep secrets. It’s just, I’ve been writing you the best story. I wrote and I pretended I was as hopeful as Arthur made me feel back in Chicago. I wrote as the me who thought I’d have near-life experiences. Ollie in the car with Auburn-Stache, Ollie staring at the Chicago glow cloud, Ollie who thought he might be a good tourist.
Ollie who wanted to believe in the beanie and not the padlocks.
Moritz, every time I cheered you on, every time I told you I was proud, I knew what I was saying. Compared to me, you’re soaring over Mordor, rescued by the eagles.
Combining us doesn’t make us a whole. It just makes you limp on one side.
I thought the thing with Liz and Joe was bad. But back then the awful things that happened to me, Moritz, were kind of out of my hands.
This is different.
I single-handedly crashed a school bus.
I sent four kids and the driver to the hospital in one go. Lucky thing it happened so early in the morning, because the bus had only just started picking up kids.
Four kids got glass in their arms just in time for Thanksgiving, Moritz, because I got reckless. Because I thought, Hey, if cars can be in the world, why can’t electromagnetic freaks?
I’m sorry for telling stories. I’m sorry for calling them stories and not lies.
But you know what? Sitting here in this room full of reptiles, writing about everything I’ve been scared to admit . . . somehow it just feels familiar. Did you see it coming?
How’s my handwriting now, Moritz?
Is it steady?
It feels way too steady.
chapter sixteen
THE BLANKETS
Of course I saw it coming.
Oliver Paulot. Once again you have crippled me with sympathy and frustration. Once again I am cringing in Kreiszig. Amazed at my petty complaints in the face of your genuine ones. You should have told me. Then again, this is nothing new. How many months did it take you to tell me about Joe’s fall in the woods? Why should I be surprised?
Because I wanted to believe that you trusted me completely, implicitly? That we had come far enough together to stop suffering alone? I did wish to believe that. Perhaps, for once, I have been the optimistic one.
And you did tell me, with all you didn’t say, dearest fellow hermit. You did not fool me. Your loss of focus all over again, your storytelling pitfalls: these things, diversions from the pain of losing the only parent you’ve ever had. Even if your persona became a fiction, I cherished it. I cherished your near-life hopes. Brothers of lies or not.
Wavering penmanship aside. Fictions aside:
I know you, Oliver Paulot.
I know you are good. You befriended me, of all people.
Can you blame yourself for how you behaved after a head injury and grief and fear garbled your mind?
I only blame you for not sharing this burden.
The cruelties of the world extend beyond what others do to us; they extend into the decisions we make when we are in no fit state to make them. Extend into our regrets and remorse’s tendency to make the smallest of our mistakes into monstrous walls we cannot clamber over.
Oliver, you tore off your hat when a bus drove at you. Nothing more.
Again, you are in pain and I am in pain. And we are nowhere near each other.
Only honesty can bring us nearer. Please see that.
Yesterday I descended the narrow steps to Owen and Fieke’s basement apartment.
Knocked three times. Imagine my profound apprehension when Fieke opened the door, greeting me with a puff of smoke and her noisome, clinking face.
“Fieke! Ah. Hallo.”
I waited for her to tear me apart. To roll her eyes, at the very least. I wish she had jostled me as she used to.
Her face revealed nothing. “Is . . . Owen in?”
Fieke shoved past me into the snow, stomping up the stairs. The ache in my ribs wasn’t cardiomyopathic.
I stepped inside. Eased the door shut. Owen sat on the couch, looking even smaller than usual, bundled in several raggedy blankets. Laptop warming lap.
He spared me a small smile. I responded with one in kind.
Something unspoken marred the atmosphere. Made me long to contact him through a computer instead. Long for distance.
Last time we were together here . . . broken branch tips.
I sat beside him. Carefully laid my head on his shoulder. Tried to project peacefulness. Owen tilted his laptop away from me. Pointless. No amount of clicking will ever make screens accessible to me.
“Message me before you visit. I’ve been preoccupied.” He had not programmed his computer to sound like anything but a machine.
“Pornography?” I jested.
His smile returned. For a flutter-beat. “Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I want to know. What are you up to?”
“I set up a text-based role-playing forum. Weeks ago.”
“Role-playing? Really.”
Oliver, you may not be aware because of your inability to approach computers. Text-based role-players constitute a tedious subculture of people who adopt fantastical identities online. Turn themselves into characters in collaboratively written stories. These characters populate intricate, invented universes and interact to develop skills and “relationships.” Devotion to these fictions compels players to create extensive imaginary landscapes, down to infinitesimal details such as the thread count of clothing.
In an RPG, you can write yourself as Amelia Armsworth, conductor of a sky-train. Another user on the opposite side of the planet can be Haruka Umi, an undersea captain who longs to sink your train into the sea and woo you into marriage. Or some such drivel. You can write yourself out of your own life and into one entirely more adventurous. Or one d
uller. There’s no law that says you can’t role-play as a sanitation worker in Canada. If you wish to. If a moderator approves.
We are not the only ones who have tried to escape into fiction, Ollie. Fruitless as it is.
“Well, I imagine that’s . . . fun.”
Owen gave me such a look. “I’m not doing it for fun. Yes, to most people it looks like a knockoff role-play for Marvel fans. That might be why we have dozens of participants. But the premise is very specific. The setting is very specific.”
“Fine, fine.” I settled in next to him, taking comfort in proximity. “Tell me what sort of world you’ve invented.”
“I didn’t invent it. I borrowed it.”
I nuzzled into his shoulder. “Do tell.”
“This is an MORPG about the lives of superhuman kids created in a secret laboratory on the edge of Germany’s Tharandt Forest. Set a decade ago.”
“Beg pardon?” I sat up.
“I’m trying to connect with the kids you knew.” He kept typing; the robotic voice continued its barrage. “With any luck, this can help you find some of the other Blunderkids. Not all of us are terrible with computers, Moritz.”
“You . . . Anyone can read this. This is a public forum? Do we know that some remnants of the initiative won’t catch sight of it?”
Owen’s smile hitched. Tap, clatter, click-clack. “People have to create user accounts before they can view posts, so it’s not exactly public. And I’d bet the initiative already knows where every single one of you ended up. Why would they care.” His computer did not enunciate question marks.
When he leaned in close, I recalled Max pushing me without permission. Nausea threw me to my feet.
“So we should flaunt ourselves. We should risk reclaiming their attention?”
Her attention. You and I are both haunted by our mothers, Oliver, in very different ways. Must I really meet all the children my mother made in order to meet you? Must I confront her mistakes so many times? Endlessly?
“How could you do this?”
Owen half closed his laptop. “I did this for you. I thought you’d want to meet the others.”
Speaking of things done unasked for, on my behalf.
“No.” I edged away, hit the wall. “I only wish to meet one of them.” Just you, Ollie.
His face. Oh, his face.
Owen slammed his feet against the tiles. Typed furiously.
“What are you feeling right now.”
I swallowed. Turned my back on him. There was nothing I could pretend to be distracted by in the barren space he called home.
“What am I feeling?” This was dire. Not the reunion I’d hoped for.
“Yes. And turn around. It bothers me when you turn away from me. You can still see me, so that’s unfair. I can’t see your face, but you can always see mine.”
“Fine. I’ve nothing to hide.” I did as he asked.
Owen remained trapped in blankets. Trapped by the machine that spoke for him.
“If you have nothing to hide, why do you always wear your goggles when we’re alone.”
“I hardly have the capacity for facial expressions. Why does it matter?”
“I don’t know. It’s like you’re uncomfortable around me. It sucks.”
I clicked. “Can’t you use a different voice?”
“This is the only voice I have.” Owen hit return so hard I thought he’d break the key. “You think I like it.”
“Oh, you know what I meant!” I snapped. “If you don’t want to be pitied all the time, stop acting pitiful!”
There was a moment, not of silence—because what moment ever is silent to me?
“What am I feeling? I don’t know. Upset? Perhaps betrayed? How—what—behind my back, Owen? I don’t know.”
“I know,” said Owen’s computer.
“Beg pardon?”
“You’re feeling guilty. You clicked at the end of that sentence.”
A dollop of ice. “Don’t tell me how I’m feeling.”
Owen lowered his eyes. “Sometimes what you’re feeling cramps my stomach up. Sometimes it gives me headaches.”
I held my arms straight against my sides. “Then why spend any time with me?”
“Why do you think.”
I couldn’t fathom, Ollie. “I can’t fathom. But how terrible it must be for you.”
He snapped the lid of his laptop shut and stood up. The cape of blankets slipped from his shoulders. He walked to the door. Held it open for me.
I held my spine straight.
Wintry air seeped into my ears and nose and mouth but could not cool the center of me. MBV adjusted to the echoes of the city street. Wish I could say I did not look. I am always looking.
Owen drew the latch. The clack revealed a wordless sob as he threw his hands over his eyes.
That sob has been ringing in my right ear ever since.
Wind blew snowflakes into my face. Flakes I could not see. Snow is all but silent when it falls. Needles poked me as I walked. I did not think of Owen while my face turned numb. I swear I did not, Oliver.
I thought of you. Of all the children as fluffed as we are. Molly and Arthur and Bridget and who knows else. We are not science fiction. The scars that mar us: these exist. Second mouths, absent eyes, bones of chalk: we are not acting. Owen cannot reduce our nightmarish pasts to a game on the magical Internet.
The sob buzzes in my cranium. I want to believe new scars can hardly matter.
Do look after yourself. I am rubbing my face raw with worry.
Moritz
P.S. Before I hit Send: I’ve recalled something that disturbs me. I doubt I’ve ever said “Blunderkinder” in front of Owen. And certainly never “Blunderkid.” Yet he knew the nickname.
Ollie. You asked for Owen’s address. I never sent it. I choose to believe you had no hand in this betrayal. Believe that in this instance you have not deceived me.
chapter seventeen
THE SYRINGE
Moritz,
Guess you’re not the only one who needs pep-rants. Thanks. It felt a little angry. Maybe sometimes a good pep-rant has to be angry.
The bus disaster was weeks ago. I really am fine now. Just let me finish putting it down? Before you make excuses for me? Give me a chance to tell the truth before you decide I’m a liar.
You haven’t even heard the darkest parts.
“You can’t put him in a bloody ambulance!”
“Sir, you can’t be here right now, unless you’re this boy’s legal guardian—”
“I’m not, but—”
He’s not? Why isn’t he? Auburn-Stache . . . ambulance?
Now, this was a painful awakening, and I didn’t know where I was or why there was so much electricity swarming me or why my jaw was throbbing like someone had hit it with a sledgehammer. Through bleary fog, I saw Auburn-Stache forcing his way aboard, clutching at the trunk doors. Bridget stood behind him, arms—wait, sledgehammers—at her sides.
Auburn-Stache must have seen my eyes open. “Please! He’s waking up! Put away those damn scissors!” My hoodie was already snipped in two.
“What the—why is he wearing that?” The woman asking had this strong accent, all twang and drawl. She was wearing these clothes I thought were pajamas, which was weird.
Scrubs, my brain supplied.
“Don’t you dare cut it! He’s very ill! He’s deathly allergic to electricity, ridiculous as it sounds, and epileptic! Look, I have identification in my car! Just let me—!”
Concussed? Or confused? I was confussed.
I sneezed, except it wasn’t sneezing but spasming, maybe, that didn’t relieve the temple pressure. Either me or the ambulance was about to seize. I looked to my left and saw dangling tubes and something worse—one of the kids from the bus: a small girl with her arm splinted whimpered into an oxygen mask.
“I’m sorry,” I tried to say, but the words got stuck in the woods of me.
The red-haired woman leaned into my face. “Is this man
your doctor?”
“Yeah,” I managed, numb-tongued, and next thing I knew, Auburn-Stache was yanking my head forward, pulling Mom’s hat back down. The pressure lessened. I just hoped my blood wouldn’t stain the wool, her useless, hopeful wool.
“Sir!” The woman and a uniformed paramedic pulled him out of the vehicle.
“Mom? Why are you here?”
The woman cussed. “Brian? Why am I—I’m doing my job; several RNs volunteered to come out when we heard it was a school bus! But the real question is why you’re here! You’re entirely grounded!”
“But—”
Auburn-Stache: “Whatever happens, don’t take Oliver’s hat off! Please!”
“Sir. Stop shouting. Please bring your identification to the hospital.”
Another voice: “Mom, you should listen to him. I think that kid just blew out the neighborhood. I think he’s some kind of freak.”
“Brian, I’ve already told you,” replied the nurse, “to go home. Enough rubbernecking!”
“I wasn’t rub—”
“You could be dead. Home! Right now!”
“Ollie!” Auburn-Stache. “I’m on my way there! I promise!”
Before they slammed the doors, I heard Auburn-Stache cuss.
Okay, he had to regret bringing me by this point.
“I’m sorry,” I told the whimpering girl again. “I took my hat off.”
“Calm down, honey.” Brian’s mother? She placed an oxygen mask on my throbbing face.
“My hat. I took my hat off. I’m sorry. I took my hat—”
“Your hat’s on now.”
Moritz. I have vague early memories of hospital machinery from back when Auburn-Stache and Mom shuffled toddler me around in the hopes of finding a c-word.
I forgot the smell and the glare of the lights and the awkward mint color of scrubs, and I’d never been wheeled in on a gurney before. And the noise—like my skull was strapped to a car engine.
They wheeled the little girl in ahead of me, through automatic doors that split open and spewed gold. She kept whimpering.
Moritz, I’m a piece of shit.
“I’m fine,” I told strangers. “Don’t take me in there, please.”
