13-Brad

The hippie girl had perhaps grown tired of being around him, because she’d gone inside. It hurt losing her. Brad felt no other connection to anyone out there, and it felt much too late to acquire one.

His ability to do that was long gone.

The shouting and jeering on the porch, which earlier had been so predictable and almost cute, was now strange and incomprehensible. An occasional explosion of laughter made him jump and left him unhinged. He couldn’t comment on anything. Some of those around him gave him strange looks.

Brad took a deep breath, feeling his entire body quiver. He gritted his teeth.

He looked down at the beer in his hand and wondered how long he’d been holding it. It was only a quarter or so full. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a drink from it. He tried to do so, but it tasted hot and metallic and absolutely awful. He could have no more of it.

How long had he been standing there, in that same position on the porch, leaning against the rail? Five minutes? Two hours? That he had no idea was disconcerting, and a glaring indicator of how far gone he was.

Brad felt like he merely blinked, and upon opening his eyes he couldn’t believe what was happening around him. How things had changed so rapidly.

It had become pure chaos.

The porch and the yard were packed. There were literally rivers of people streaming around the side yards, through the doors, they were bouncing off the walls, jumping up and down, hanging on railings. They made no sense whatsoever—their behavior, their actions. They were like animals, like gremlins, they were reckless beasts, and they were loud, so loud, and so intrusive. Even worse was how he felt people looking at him—strangely, and in a manner as though questioning.

Brad desperately yearned to be rid of the beer he held in his hand, a can which felt not just warm but hot. The porch table was right in front of him—all he had to do was reach out and set the beer down. But he couldn’t. Occasionally people would pass in front of him, blocking the way, but still there were plenty of opportunities.

Everything might be okay if he could just get rid of the beer in his hand.

It took an astounding amount of effort, but finally, his arm shot out and set the beer on the edge of the table, the color of his hand holding the beer can leaving a brilliant streak that hung in the air for several seconds, resonating. It was another glaring indicator of how far he’d progressed, and rather stunning to behold. He retreated shakily back to his safe place by the railing.

But there was a problem. His place was becoming less and less safe. The crowd on the porch grew dense. They would not let him be. People bumped into him again and again. A burst of sudden laughter—surely from the punchline of a joke, or in response to a drunken antic—sent a ripple of panic through him.

Brad realized he had to get away. He just had to. But he couldn’t budge.

Another development had become apparent—how all the colors he could see took on a liquid sheen. Outside in the relative darkness, there was a sea of people all around him, and the color of their skin was too thick and full, suggesting a tone and texture that wasn’t at all solid. This became so disturbing that Brad was afraid to hold his glance for too long upon any one person. He had to though, because the backdoor flew open and Clay came galloping out, his footsteps thunderous upon the wooden deck. Brad felt his body seize.

“Brad!” Clay yelled, his head darting back and forth. Brad hoped he wouldn’t be seen, but alas, Clay targeted him surprisingly easily amongst such a large crowd.

“Dude, you’re still sitting out here?” he asked, his voice loud and tenacious. “Get your ass inside, man! Amy Weaver is in there, and she’s asking for you!”

For a second the words registered, and it felt like a blow to his entire body. But they didn’t linger very long—Brad had other concerns.

He looked upon Clay’s drunken, slack-jawed face for far too long, and saw that liquid sheen of his skin begin to waver and grow turbulent. Finally, it burst into stars, the skin withdrawing altogether and underneath was a skull with black, empty eye sockets. The jawbone still hung in the same manner, a perfect mimic of Clay’s slack expression.

He couldn’t handle that for very long, so Brad pressed his eyes closed, and upon opening them Clay was Clay again. But, the turbulence on his skin began almost immediately, as the ghastly cycle repeated.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” Clay’s bare skull asked, a sight that Brad knew might stick with him forever.

Once more, he shut his eyes to reset his view, and then launched himself off the railing. Deftly he cut through the crowd on the back porch, being careful to avoid direct eye contact with anyone. Upon reaching the back door he slipped inside.

There were new marvels to behold within the house, starting first and foremost with the music—it was loud and intrusive, and he felt it vibrate every individual cell in his body. It came from the living room, which he saw off to his left, and within were people dancing. To the right was the kitchen, where people played quarters.

For a moment he was pacified, like a life ring had been tossed his way in a raging storm, because the sights he saw arose a sense of calming familiarity. He recognized the activities he saw—the dancing, the drinking games—and he knew what they were. And so, he could remember—this was a party, and nothing more, and all he had to do was chill, chill, chill the fuck out.

He stood there briefly, in limbo, but the deterioration was inevitable. The longer he looked at the people dancing in the living room, the more and more their movements began to make no sense—it became not like dancing but instead like they were engaged in some sort of bizarre ritual. And the quarters table, too—the cheering and competition he heard from there began to feel like it was not a party, not at all. This all was some kind of giant play, a show, it was something that these hundreds of people had rehearsed—everyone was in on it, and it was all designed to fuck with his head. This was a massive, concerted effort, carried forth for reasons that were inexplicable, and somehow insidious.

Finally, Brad saw a viable option. It had been there all along. The door that led down to the basement—it was right in front of him.

He went for the door quickly, but as he passed, he happened to have a clear view of the foyer. Just like everywhere else, it was flooded with kids, and amongst them Brad caught a glimpse of Amy Weaver. She laughed and talked with a simple ease with some people nearby. It brought to him a sobering sensation as he realized that Amy had indeed come to the party, and she was right there, enjoying herself—exactly where he should have been. He yearned to recover, to turn back time, to go over and speak with her—and he even considered this.

But he knew he couldn’t. It was much too late. His path had been set. He was far too gone.

Even as he looked at her, feeling the pangs of sorrow bite into the thick haze around him, he saw her face begin to distort, too—like the others, it acquired that liquid sheen. He shut his eyelids tightly, refusing to see her like that. Then he opened his eyes again, but only looked down, toward the basement door, and seconds later he was heading down the stairs, descending into darkness, into solitude.

He really was an outcast, he thought, with startling clarity.

For the first time, he wondered quite seriously if he would survive this night, and if he did survive, if he would ever be able to fully recover. Those questions were unsettling, and he told himself again and again to chill, as his body quivered, and his jaws and teeth ached. Every single one of the pores on his skin felt alive with acid energy.

In the basement there were couches placed around an entertainment center that held a TV and a stereo. Brad sat on one of the couches, his body tense and rigid, staring at the ceiling. It rippled and waved like a plaster sea. His eyes shifted to the upholstery of the couch across from him. It was a checked pattern, and as he looked, the pattern wavered, different colors leapt off it, hanging in midair, in 3D. The pattern formed into tessellations and kaleidoscopes, their complexity and intensity increasing the longer he held his eyes open. Blinking reset it, but then it would slowly start again, the lines and colors creeping and crystallizing.

He swallowed, and focused on breathing.

Ultimately the basement was both a blessing and a curse. He was finally, blissfully, alone—which he thought was best for his current state. But in isolation he knew he might be prone to any kind of tangent or path to take him astray, to places wild and unchecked, and there was no anchor to hold him down or life ring to keep him afloat.

The noises from the party overhead were constant, and seemed to become louder and louder. The ceiling above squeaked and creaked. There was an occasional bang as someone or something jumped or fell over, and his heart leapt. Amidst it all were loud shouts and laughs. Brad’s head was on a swivel as he looked back and forth above him, wondering what was happening, failing to dismiss the noises as merely those from a party. Instead they were sinister, invasive, and…getting closer.

Brad’s heart almost jumped out of his chest when he heard the basement door at the top of the steps swing open, and the noises from above became magnified, seemingly a thousand-fold. Then he heard the footsteps coming downstairs.

Moving quietly and efficiently, Brad leapt off the couch and ran to the back of the room. There was a bathroom in the basement and he dashed inside. Navigating through the darkness, he found a linen closet, and this is where he hid, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The footsteps coming down the stairs skipped the last few and jumped. Brad could hear hands hitting the wall in an effort to retain balance, and the footsteps neared.

“Brad!” Clay yelled out in a loud, abrasive voice. “Brad! Where the hell are you?”

The last part of his comment was muffled, as Clay had already turned and began running back upstairs.

The footsteps came and went and then were gone. Brad breathed once more, still in the closet, afraid to move a muscle. He didn’t leave the closet for a few more minutes.

He gritted his teeth in agony. Deep in his mind, he kept seeing Ed Lugo. Ed had a crooked smile, and his dreadlocks writhed in the air like medusa hair. Be careful, man. I mean it, Ed said.

“What is this shit?” Brad whispered to himself, in anguish, gritting his teeth, his jaw on fire.

He needed out. The thought materialized, and it was quite clear. He had to get out. It was a deep-rooted survival instinct, perhaps, and the sense had become focused and acute. He’d felt it once or twice already, but never more so then at that moment, the feeling that something was impending, that something calamitous would happen. Whatever was coming, he was in no condition to deal with it when it came.

His way was made clear as his eyes fell upon a door leading outside. The basement was partially a daylight one. It was miraculous, a lifesaver, and as he hurried toward it he could hear Ed’s horrific laughter still echoing in his mind.

Then came another life ring—the cool night air to greet him after pushing his way through the door. It was fresh and awakening, even cleansing. This was where he’d started, but it was better now, after having run the gauntlet inside. He breathed deeply, feeling his thoughts ease, the fire within him cooling.

He stood in a mossy, enclosed area a few steps down from the side yard, around the corner from the back porch where the bulk of the party was. He heard all the noise coming from there, the great mass of people gathered, mindlessly riding along on the train that was about to come off the tracks. What fools, he thought. It was like an assembly, ready to usher in the impending calamity, and they laughed and joked and had no idea what was coming.

But Brad knew. He climbed up the steps, moving cautiously, and stood in the side yard. But then his eyes went unavoidably to the windows of the house, and peering within he saw them in the living room, the loud, strange, clumsy people in the party, those who were doomed.

And there she was—Amy. He saw her quite clearly from the darkness in which he stood. She was as joyous as ever, a shining beacon within, and it incited a sober voice, calling out to him, one that was his own. It hated him for being outside in the dark by his lonesome, on strong drugs, instead of inside talking with her. For he could sense the truth—that he’d rather be part of the doomed, if it meant he was inside with her.

Then, Brad realized something, something that felt like an anvil hitting his chest—there was an arm around Amy. Around her shoulders. Brad moved, changing the angle of his view and saw the arm attached to another familiar face—the laughing, shit-talking face of Rob Smith.

They were together, Rob and Amy, and had their arms around each other. The scene assaulted his mind as he hung his head, the world pulsing in and out around him.

It was the way it had to be though, he realized sadly. This night was going to change everything.

He forced himself away from the window. He did fear the hallucinations that came from looking into their faces, but even more so, he didn’t want to somehow be spotted by one of them, which would be abjectly terrifying in every respect.

Brad approached the street and laid his eyes on the road before him. It was lit up a sparkling silver runway in the streetlights. He paced slowly toward it, moving hesitantly, cautiously, as though he were breaching a strange new world, glimpsing it for the first time.

One time, during lunch in the school cafeteria, Brad had heard one of his friends giving advice about dropping acid. This guy had said, speaking in a sage-like tone, “before you trip, make sure you have your shoes on, because you never know where you’re going to end up.”

Brad looked down at his feet, checking to see if he had his shoes on.

He did.