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First person. Damien is the main character, kind of stream of conscious writing for him, he is not aware of the reader and will not ever address them directly.



<----------------------------Story Below------------------------------->


I blinked hard several times and pinched at my eye slightly through my eyelid to adjust one of my contacts. This is what happens when you fall asleep with them in, I think. They feel gritty all day instead of just after the normal recommended wear time. I’ve tried eyedrops and they help a little but what my eyes really need is a rest without the contacts and the contacts need to be cleaned in solution. I can’t do either of those things because I need my contacts to see and I haven’t had any spare glasses in years. I occasionally worry that this will come back to bite me in some way. Like now, except now is not too bad. ...Or wouldn’t be if I didn’t have so much studying to do.

I squinted at the page I was supposed to be reading and pick the book up and move it towards and away from me, trying to find a comfortable level of focus. I spend what feels like several minutes doing this before I realize I haven’t read a bit of it in all that time. I squint at the clock and wonder if maybe I need a new prescription. It’s still a couple of hours until class is supposed to start. It’s going to be a review for the final exams, I know it is and if I didn’t think showing up would help more than just staying here and reading up on my own I wouldn’t bother going because it means I’m going to have to do things like shower between now and then and otherwise conform to the usual social code.

The sound of my phone ringing nearly makes my heart stop. When did I put it back on ring? Last night maybe when I was actually open to phone calls. Probably. It seems louder than usual, especially compared to the muted music I was listening to from the next room over. It occurs to me that I should be looking for the phone and maybe answering it instead of listening to the ring. The phone is more or less easy to locate in the pocket of the jeans I was wearing yesterday. I also find a piece of gum in that pocket which I unwrap and put in my mouth before answering the phone as though the person on the other end is going to care more about the freshness of my breath than the fact that I have gum in my mouth.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Damien Fores?” The voice on the other end asks. They don’t sound very familiar. I move the phone away from my ear and glance at the number on the screen. Not familiar either. “Damien Fores?” The voice is asking again as I put the phone back to my ear. I consider telling them they have the wrong number and hang up but get the feeling they’d just call back in a minute after checking the number they dialed. I am, after all, Damien Fores, this is my phone.

“Sorry.” I mutter. Sorry for letting it ring so long, sorry for not saying anything right away. “Yes, speaking.” I pause half a beat and then continue just in case that wasn’t clear enough. “I’m Damien Fores.” And have been all my life. An old joke but I don’t say it out loud. Inside jokes stay inside unless someone is around to appreciate them.

“Mr. Fores this is Jennifer Gardiner down at the police station. We need you to come down here as soon as you can.” Police station?

“The Greenfield Police Station or the Franklin County District Station?” I ask.

“I’m sorry. This is the Franklin County station. Are you not in residence at 137 Western avenue in Ham-?”

“My parent’s house. I’m at college right now in Hastings. I can be there soon.” I cut her off. Of course that’s listed as my official residence still.

“Okay, Mr. Fores. Just come as soon as you can.”

“Okay. Bye.” I hang up. It’s only after I close my phone that a rush of emotion wells in my gut. Why am I being called to come down to the police station? At twenty-two I’m old enough to both smoke and drink but do little of either. I haven’t been out to a bar in weeks so I can’t be getting a drunk and disorderly. I haven’t really been anywhere in a while so there’s not even a red light tape they could be calling him on. Maybe he was being called in as a character witness or maybe he’d actually seen something he wasn’t aware of. Maybe he was someone’s alibi. Maybe he watched too many crime shows and he should just go see what they wanted.

I pulled on a button-down t-shirt and buttoned it up most of the way to make myself more presentable. I grimaced at my hair in the mirror and wondered if I should brush it. But then again it seemed like the funny shaggy cut I’d been talked into probably looked better messy anyway. Especially since it was somewhat dirty. I winced and wished I had time to take a shower. Or that I had done it earlier. Oh well. No time now. Not when I had to go and do the police stuff right now and maybe even be able to get to my review class later if it went quickly enough.

I shook my head and grabbed my keys and headed out to my car. It started a little reluctantly as it hadn’t been used in days but otherwise seemed fine. I chewed the gum in my mouth over-enthusiastically because I was pretty sure I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Gross. I tried to focus on things like that instead of letting my mind spin off in a dozen different directions like it wanted to. There was the why of my little trip. Thoughts concerning my lax hygiene practices of late. Placations to myself about how I could be more hygienic in a few weeks when finals were over and done with. My thoughts also drifted to my impending graduation and flickered briefly to my future after that but focussed and clogged mainly with the facts of my studies. Formulae and facts and specifications and all the many things I’d put a study to.

Finally I arrived at the station and with one last dissatisfied face at myself in the rear-view mirror I climbed out of the car and went inside. When I go to check in at the front desk the same woman who called me- Jennifer Gardiner- is on the phone with someone else and uses a gesture and a polite smile to direct me over to a waiting area. Fantastic. I rush to get here, I’m probably going to miss my important review class and they’re just going to make me wait anyway. Absurd. Well, not really, that’s the way the world works. Sadly the world is not logical. Otherwise you could easily deem this situation absurd.

I walked over toward the sitting area. There’s a woman already waiting there reading a couple of printed-out sheets. She’s dressed in a smart woolen pants suit and has her hair pulled up neatly. I would say that she’s quite lovely in a ‘but also too old to ever consider’ kind of way. Aesthetically, maybe? That doesn’t seem like quite the right word. Abstractly? Conventionally. Uhg. It really doesn’t matter. I decide to forget about it. Especially since my proximity has attracted her attention.

“Damien Fores?” She asks suddenly, rising to her feet. There’s something funny about the tone of her voice that reminds me of the way that Jennifer Gardiner spoke. It’s not a quality like the pitch of her speech but I think the tone in which she says my name. It has a weird weight to it, a gravity of some kind. I nod instead of saying anything and she gestures for me to sit next to her on the couch she had been seated on before. “Please take a seat.” She offers and I move around the coffee table to do as requested.

I still have to wonder what this is about. I’ve been asked down to talk to someone who is so clearly not a police officer that I can’t fathom how this is a police matter at all. She doesn’t even look like CSI or anything like that. Again I try but fail to come up with a logical reason for my being here. Except for an uncomfortable thought. A morbid one that I ignored sheerly for that reason. When we’re both settled, turned so that we’re mostly facing each-other she draws in a slow breath. She lets it out as slowly and briefly closes her eyes. She opens her mouth and pauses as though at a loss for words before finally speaking. “I’m sorry to tell you this but there’s been an accident.” The first words are spoken with her eyes still closed and when she opens them she appears... tired.

“An accident?” My voice sounds slightly strained and I clear my throat even as my mind starts to scramble again. An accident. It sounds ominously. Deeply I recognize that I am about to be told something horrible but instant by instant I rationalize more and more that whatever she will say wont be that bad. I’m sure psychologists have written papers on that kind of psychology. I’m certain they have a name for the effect but I’m only actively thinking about this because of the psychology at work, I’m sure.

“A car accident.” She clarifies. She says the words so very gently like she’s wielding physical objects and if she’s not careful she’ll hurt you with them. A more cynical faction of your mind insists that this is true even while louder, more panicked portions insist it is not.

“What?” My tone sounds too insistent, too much like a demand because even though my voice didn’t break there’s a painful lump in my throat that denies swallowing it away. “Is everything alright?” I add to soften my first reaction. I find it funny that my voice comes out half-strangled. I wonder if most people recognize hysteria as it overwhelms them. I can’t imagine most people have that thought. But even though deep inside I know already what she’s saying I want more than anything to hear something else. My eyes sting and though I haven’t cried in a long time I still recognize the impending tears. She places her hand on my upper arm and leans closer to me.

“I’m sorry.” She says softly, confirming your fears as the first tear escapes to trickle down your cheek.

“My parents?” My voice barely comes out in a whisper. She nods fractionally like she doesn’t really want to but it’s enough to confirm my question. I try not to let the pain in my chest overwhelm me as I draw breath to ask the one question I dread the answer to even more than the previous one. “My-” My voice does break this time and I have to let a sob escape before I can manage to continue. “My sister?” I wonder if my voice is even audible at this point. But she nods again. She looks very sorry. She obviously wishes she didn’t have to tell me this. “How?” And this, this manages to be a demand in your strained voice.

“A drunk driver blew through a red light. He was driving a large truck. They were killed instantly on impact.” That’s supposed to comfort me, I think. Knowing that they didn’t suffer. I’ve seen the same tactic in a dozen movies. Obviously it doesn’t usually look like this and the dialogue isn’t precisely the same but the ideas are the same and I can recognize them. But they’re all dead. How does it matter how they died? There’s warm arms around me and scratchy wool against my face but mostly there’s hot tears and a tight ball of pain that takes over all my internal organs until finally everything feels hollow and there isn’t anything anymore.