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 Posted: Fri Jul 06, 2012 1:08 am
Once upon a time, Wilson Hopkins had been a child afraid of the dark and everything that went bump in the night. He had been a boy that was a bit tall for his age. He had been a boy that was scrawny and weak. Wilson Hopkins had always been a cheerful kid despite the misleading photographs that were still carefully placed in his mother’s photo album. Even now, the color pictures were still in those books that were buried somewhere in his old house. Wilson knew this.
It was only when the sun began to set or when the lights in the classroom switched off for naptime that things began to change. Even in the darkness, wide eyes could still peer through his thick-framed glasses. He could still see the black figures with murky outlines standing at the corners of the room. It was their presence that terrified him and sent him reeling into his mind. His gaze became downcast. He hunched his shoulders, lowered his head. They were watching. Sometimes they would shift their position, maybe take a step forward or to the side. It was a slight shift, but the movement always startled the poor boy. It would send him shivering beneath the blanket, his eyes wide open while he listened to the steady breathing of his classmates or the comforting screech of a car passing by his house because it meant he was still breathing and safe. He was still alive.
But he couldn’t sleep. He would spend the night staring up at the ceiling and examine the pale blue glow the white walls took on during the night. Not even the illumination from a nightlight comforted him. Wilson kept staring with wide eyes. He stared and stared until he would blink slowly and night became morning.
The tired stare on his face never went away. The same stare that seemed to plague him now as an adult. He stared at another white ceiling, but this time it was Gale’s house. Wilson was sleeping on the couch. He closed his eyes.
It was the weekend. His parents were at a wedding. His babysitter was downstairs. Wilson could see the light flooding through the crack beneath the door and it reassured him that he wasn’t alone. Tiny fingers clutched the blanket as he tried to count sheep, but sleep refused to come. Wilson’s grip on the comforter tightened. His eyes glazed over.
“Honey? Why are you still awake?” His mother’s soft voice pulled the child out of his daze. He could feel the bed shift as April Hopkins seated herself at the edge of the mattress. The woman cupped Wilson’s face with a hand.
He reached for the sleeve of her coat as he spoke in a weepy voice, “I can’t sleep. The monsters will get me.”
His mother’s expression remained calm, but her eyes glanced away for a moment. “No, they won’t.” She held her son’s hand in her own.
“Yes, they will.”
Her tone was still soft, but firmer this time. “No, they won’t. Because I’ll be right here.”
Wilson’s grip on her hand tightened and he spoke in an even quieter whisper, “Really?”
A smile. “Really.” She leaned forward to smooth out the wrinkles in the bed sheets before she pressed a kiss to his forehead.
He hesitated, but when his mother squeezed his hand he closed his eyes. It still didn’t work. Wilson rolled onto his side and he could hear his mother’s tired sigh. He squeezed his eyes shut.
His mother chuckled softly. She leaned forward again. He could tell because her long hair brushed against his face.
“Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
I’m tired and I
I want to go to bed.”
Wilson had never heard his mother sing before until now. It was quiet and low, but it felt warm too. She took a moment to lean back before she continued.
“Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
And then leave me alone.”
She stopped as if to contemplate something.
“There is another world
There is a better world
Well, there must be
Well, there…”
Wilson woke up. The house was silent and dark when he rolled off the couch. He stayed on his knees while he compiled pieces of his dream, the remnants of a far off memory.
He opened his mouth to tentatively repeat the words in the same slow rhythm his mother had used, “Sing me to sleep.” The man could hear piano notes ringing in his thoughts. He searched through his phone. There was only one song—
“Asleep by The Smiths.” Wilson hummed thoughtfully as he recalled that one day when he put the song onto his phone. How nostalgic.
Once upon a time, Wilson Hopkins had been a scaredy cat who lulled himself to sleep with a certain song, but that had been years ago.
He crawled back onto the couch. The glow of the screen lit up his face as he played the song again. He closed his eyes as he listened to the quiet piano.
Once upon a time, he had stopped with lullabies, but not tonight.
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Posted: Sat Jul 14, 2012 7:59 pm
The Good Guy
Good Guy Wilson.
The title followed him wherever he went, but he couldn’t remember when the name had originated. He guessed it was a nickname he had earned sometime in late elementary because in retrospect that had been the beginning of everything. It had been the time when he decided he would stop his temper tantrums and terrified screams in the middle of the night. Yes, this had been the time he slowly began to piece together his everything—a smile made everything better. It was okay to cover up frowns and tears and doubts with a reassuring smile.
It had been difficult at first to abandon his puerile desires. Snacks and toys as soon as the temptation arose, but by the end of middle school, restraint was easy for Wilson. By the end of high school it was second nature. He had never wanted to see someone sad, anyways. If it meant giving something up, that was okay.
And eventually the title became him at his very core.
“Good guy? Me?” the hunter murmured to himself as he stared at the ceiling in his dorm room. He rolled onto his side, closed his eyes so he could rest, but his dreams only conjured up unpleasant memories for him. They were more than unpleasant, to be honest. The taste was acrid, the feelings forming sharp spikes that pierced him in the gut.
Wilson kicked away a rock with his boot while he stared at the muddy sign in front of him: PRIVATE PROPERTY: TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. The sky still bled deep red just like before as he ambled down the dirt road toward the opening in the fence. Every step sent needles up his legs as he remained fully aware of where he was, where he was heading towards, where he was going to end up after everything was said and done and it would all be his fault.
There was no hesitation in his footing as he traversed through the creaky floorboards and passed the stairs. The flickering lights did not scare the hunter as much as it had initially. The true horror had yet to pass, after all. Shouts echoed down the hallway, but he kept walking. The headset around his neck continued to emit static. Wilson stood before the trap door and kicked it open—darkness. He paused. Took a step forward and—
Bam.
He fell to the ground in a dusty heap. The aches in his body felt so real and his heart fell heavy, but he kept moving because it was the only thing he could do. Maybe if he went through his memories enough time, it wouldn’t keep tearing at his heart and wouldn’t keep drowning him in guilt until it felt hard to breathe whenever he thought of the incident. Wilson stayed on the ground for a few more moments. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to prepare himself for the inevitable.
Girlish laughter bounced against the walls around him and he knew. Wilson forced his eyes open so he could stare at the dangling corpse right above him, the body hanging by the hole in the ceiling. The corner of his lips twitched. He tried to smile reassuringly just like always, but it came out pained. His lips parted, he convulsed forward as a wracked sob came out.
“I’msorryI’msosorryI’msorrypleaseforgivemeI’msorry—“
A yell. A strong force from the side that sent him tumbling to the ground a second time. Wilson winced as he grasped the injured area. It throbbed slightly. He kept one eye squeezed shut as he tried to get onto his feet, but a foot was planted onto his back, sending him back toward the ground.
“You’re not sorry.” The voice was the same, far as Wilson was concerned. So was the shirt and hat and it was the same intern. But the smile had disappeared. A frown adorned his features. Wilson winced as Stan kicked him again. “You just recklessly told us to go up the stairs? Let me die so simply, so easily? Is this good to you?”
The hunter couldn’t bring himself to stand back up. He couldn’t even look the ghost in the eye. The pale skin and the semi-transparent body was too much of a reminder for him of what he had done.
“I killed you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please—“
“Do you really call yourself good? Do you even deserve the title at all?” Stan kneeled down to grab a fistful of Wilson’s hair and drew him closer so he could hiss into the lad’s ear. “You’re a hunter, Wilson. You kill and you die in the attempt to kill. Can you call that good? I think you’ve forgotten the meaning of good, Wilson.” Stan threw him back to the ground.
“It’s like you’re not even human anymore.”
When Wilson woke up the words still haunted his mind.
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Posted: Sat Jul 14, 2012 8:00 pm
He can’t remember how he managed to crawl back to the confines of his room. Everything is a blur to Wilson. He can vaguely recall colors swirling together until they made shades of grey, but that is all. Anything said to him is forgotten for eternity with no hopes of ever recalling it. Whatever he felt the day before has been lost to oblivion, but Wilson figures it wasn’t that important anyways. There must have been confusion and sorrow and pain, so much pain. It has become customary for him to feel the sharp cracks of his bones and the burning sensations ripping through his body. Wilson doesn’t like it, but he can never get rid of it either, so he bears with it. But he doesn’t know how long he can stand it until he goes insane, or maybe he’ll die before then. Everything has become speculation. Not surprising, given his division.
When he wakes up the next day, he doesn’t feel like getting out of bed. It’s not the usual bout of laziness that almost always over takes Wilson in the morning, save for when he hears the cries of an alarm or the buzz of his phone. His room feels colder than usual; there is a certain pain in his stomach and his mind turns blank. Somewhere within the hazy cloud of his consciousness, Wilson registers the fact that this is a sickness. He is ill, but it isn’t not a normal sickness. Wilson can feel it. Sometime during the day he tries to get out of bed.
He collapses to the floor, but the pain barely registers in his brain. Wilson grasps his head, tries to stand up. The hunter wobbles to his feet, but he’s standing. Everything is moving as he struggles to grasp the handle of his door, but somehow he can hear the lock click open and he stumbles into the hallway. Suddenly everything feels heavy and he is leaning against the wall for support and he is staring at the colors that are mixing together again. The colors are shifting in and out, leaving splotches of monochrome across his vision.
Wilson doesn’t see anyone in the hallway, or he thinks he doesn’t. He can’t tell anymore. He is far too focused on trying to move forward, on the burning aches in his muscles. Something tells him he should head back to the room and he isn’t sure if it’s himself or if it’s Gramps. He can’t tell anymore. Everything is blending together and everything is nauseating.
Eyes squeezed shut, he slowly makes his way back to his room. The door is ajar. He slips inside. The door closes with a soft click. He falls onto his bed and winces. Then Wilson burrows deep beneath the covers. He sighs, lets his muscles relax. Wilson closes his eyes and tries to sleep the illness away.
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Posted: Sat Jul 14, 2012 8:01 pm
Bittersweet
It was weird to know Wilson had managed to miss his own birthday last year. How does someone miss his own birthday? Ah, that was right. By being comatose in a pod for almost half a year. Well, at least it hadn’t been an important age like twenty-one, right? That had already passed.
The death trainee found himself seated at one of the many tables that lined the cafeteria. It was dark outside and almost just as dark inside, except for the few lamps hanging overhead that flickered dimly. An elbow propped on the table, Wilson leaned his cheek against the palm of his hand while he looked out one of the windows, but there was nothing outside. It was pitch black. He continued to sit in that position, leaning against his hand while he mindlessly stared into the darkness.
It used to be he would regard the night with a wary smile—nervous of the creatures that prowled in the shadows and afraid to learn what they could do to him and his loved ones, but smiling because he didn’t dare to have anyone worry about him. It was something he had picked up over the years: beginning as a child when he constantly woke up screaming and crying until his parents rushed into his bedroom. His hysterics weren’t once-in-a-while things spawned from terrifying movies, they were commonplace. They were normal, just as normal as the dark rings beneath his parents’ eyes or their nervous whispers Wilson could sometimes hear behind the not-quite-closed door. He was thirteen and naive, but somehow he knew the late nights his mother and father spent in the kitchen were for him, not for work. They were worrying endlessly over him, losing sleep over him.
That was when he learned how easily a smile could fix things. A simple “I’m fine” and a grin could do wonders. People didn’t let their gaze linger on his thin, tired figure. No one took the extra energy to worry about Wilson. That was just how he wanted it. People shouldn’t go out of their way to protect him when they needed to look after themselves. People shouldn’t have to needlessly stress over his wellbeing because he was alright. Really. He was fine.
If you smile enough and delude yourself enough, you can forget things. You can forget about the monsters hiding under your bed or the formless beings that haunt the school building late at night. You can forget it because Wilson knows, he’s done it. A fake smile can do wonders when you know how to smile just the right way.
Still sitting in the cafeteria, Wilson smiled softly. His free hand reached into his jacket pocket to fish out his phone and read the time. July 23rd, 10:47 PM.
[A little over an hour till your special day, was it?] Surprising how you actually remembered. The catoblepas snorted, but said nothing else. Silence.
He shifted in his seat, rested both arms on the tabletop and spread out his legs beneath the table. Wilson should have been asleep on Gale’s couch, but instead he was here. Why? Dark red eyes wandered toward the kitchen door. Hesitation. He slowly rose from his seat and headed into the kitchen, running a hand over the countertop before he sifted through the cupboards and refrigerator.
The trainee found himself pouring flour into a bowl, swiftly cracking eggs with one hand while he reached for the sugar and vanilla extract with the other. He clutched the bowl, held it close to himself while he mixed the ingredients together in silence, frowning. There was no one for him to smile for. There was no need for the saccharine smiles and polite laughter that were usually genuine, but recently? Recently, they were more plastic than he would have preferred, but they were still sweet enough for no one to notice. Wilson supposed he really knew how to smile, dimples and all.
Maybe he really knew how to temporarily delude himself into thinking he was happy, satisfied. He had lied to himself for five years, after all.
There was only the sound of the wooden spoon scraping against the plastic bowl and pressing out the bubbles in the batter. The motions were mindless from years of sneaking into the kitchen to whip up his own confections made for his personal consumption (sometimes for his friends too). Wilson knew this recipe by heart, so as the spoon spun he thought.
He thought of the mission with a bloody sky and a rundown hotel. He thought of the moon hunter with the brown bandana and orange eyes. He thought of distorted colors. He thought of the girl with red eyes and guns and the young, blond boy with scythes on his coat. He thought of moon-shaped cookies. He thought of the blond with a long braid. He thought of muted purple eyes he’d looked into for the past three or so years.
He thought of green eyes.
Wilson paused. Sandy’s eyes.
His own eyes were blank when he poured the mixture into a pan and slipped it into the oven while donning thick mitts. Wilson pursed his lips, clapped his hands together as he waltzed backwards until he was pressed against the counter. Hands found the counter’s edge and he eased himself onto the countertop.
At one point he found his phone in his slender hands. There was the sudden urge to type out a tweet, but then he put the phone away. His sneakers softly knocked the cupboards while Wilson waited patiently and thought silently.
Creaky floorboards. A pair of civilians. A flaming sword. Dark skin. Shadows in the corner of his eye. Whispers of power and greed and temptation. A glaive’s blade decorated with faded scales. Golden branches spreading across white. Clouds creeping over a coat. A pale pink scarf.
Green eyes. Snakes.
The jingling of coins. A small woman. Paths. PathsPathsPathsFragileReplaceableDeathBloodBrokenLimbsGlassyEyes—
A flash of glowing blue. The distinct schink of a descending blade.
The sweet smell of cake filled his nostrils, brought him back to reality.
He took out the pan and placed it on a pot holder. Wilson tossed the oven mitt back into the drawer while he stood away, leaning against the piece of counter next to the fresh cake while he waited for it to cool.
Sing me to sleep. Sing me to sleep. I’m tired and I, I want to go to bed. He closed his eyes.
His aunt’s bright smile. Her gaudy house. His mother’s gentle smile. Her hand as she smacks his tiny one before he can sneak a cookie before dinner. His father’s easygoing grin. His strong arms as he lifts Wilson onto his shoulders. The not-quite-silent silence of Em’s library. Wilson’s shoulders relaxed. Em.
When Wilson opened his eyes, he walked over to the metal pan and eased the cake onto a paper towel. He checked the time. Midnight.
The man pressed his lips together, let his fingers intertwine as he desperately wished for the warmth of his lover, but she was already dozing peacefully in her dorm.
“Happy 23rd birthday to me,” he murmured before he reached out to take a chunk of the cake.
Why did it taste so bittersweet?
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