little-blackbird asked: Are you from Omaha Nebraska?
I’m from the general area of Omaha. c: I don’t live there anymore, though.
novel excerpt #2
Adrian hadn’t commented on that quite yet, but he did comment on Evan taking his bed. “Hey, you can’t sleep there.” Adrian told Evan, turning around in his uncomfortable roller chair to look back at him. “That’s mine.”
Evan shook his head. “I’m not sleeping, I’m resting. You can have it back later.”
No good responses to that were coming to Adrian’s mind. He just mumbled, “Whatever,” before turning around and going back to work on that math worksheet.
Evan laid there quietly for a while, just listening to the scratching of Adrian’s pencil on the paper, combined with the barely audible sound of the music coming from Adrian’s headphones. If it was a band he knew, the music was too quiet and too far away for him to recognize them. After being silent for long enough, Evan eventually spoke up. “So where do I sleep if I can’t sleep here?” he asked, opening his eyes and looking over at Adrian.
“I don’t know.” Adrian responded, shrugging. He didn’t look away from the assignment. “A couch. The floor. In the closet.” He tossed out whatever ideas he thought of, “It’s actually a decent sized closet, you’d be surprised.”
“I’d feel like Harry Potter then.” Evan replied, stretching, “I’ll only sleep in there if I get to be a wizard or something.”
Adrian laughed. “Yeah, that’s not happening. You can sleep wherever you want pretty much, just stay out of the way. That’s it.”
“I’ll figure something out.” Evan mumbled, rolling over on the bed.
The two of them stayed like that in near silence for quite a while, until Adrian finally finished the paper and made Evan leave to go sleep somewhere else. (he went downstairs somewhere, probably to take a couch.) This was still a strange, surreal situation that Adrian almost didn’t believe was really happening, but it was.
There was a dead guy in his house.
A dead guy that nobody else could see.
A dead guy that kept talking to him, and was now living in his house.
When Adrian went to bed, a part of him believed that when he woke up he’d find out this was all just a really strange dream he was having, and Evan Langelier, the dead guy from Ontario, didn’t actually exist.
I’ll tell you right now. That part of Adrian was completely wrong.
-
“It’s been really lonely without you here.” Gideon said for what was probably the hundredth time in the past year and a half. Every time he visited Steven’s grave he seemed to say something along those lines. He also usually mentioned how his life had been going, and how he was trying to paint again, and he always ended up apologizing so much that Steven probably would have told him to stop if he was actually there.
But he wasn’t. It was just Gideon sitting alone in the cemetery, in front of Steven’s grave, and it was the closest thing to a conversation he would ever have with Steven again. He tried to avoid thinking about that though, and focused on thinking of different things to talk about that might interest Steven, if he were there.
“I tried baking a cake last night, but it turned out terrible.” Gideon said to the gravestone, changing the subject. “I’m not half as good at it as you. You were always so good at that, you made the best cake.”
Adjusting to life after killing Elias had been difficult. After a hospital stay during which Gideon was told the nerves in his hand were damaged so badly that he’d never paint again, he stayed home and hardly left. It was partly to avoid the media, but the bigger part of it was just because he had no desire whatsoever to leave his apartment. The void Steven and Will left behind was only more obvious when Gideon wasn’t busy worrying about taking Elias down, and he could no longer distract himself with painting. It was far too easy for him to notice the little signs that they were never coming back when there was nothing else to keep him busy.
Every day around the time the nearby high school’s last class ended, Scout always paced back and forth in front of the front door, wagging her tail and whining and trying to stick her nose under the door. A year and a half later, she still hadn’t stopped waiting for Will to come back and visit her just like he used to. Gideon hoped she’d stop after a few weeks, but it just seemed to get worse as she got more and more anxious to see him as time went on.
There was also still that hole in the front door where Gideon found Steven’s key what felt like decades ago. Every time he saw it, he felt like he’d failed. He felt like even though he killed Elias, he still lost, and then “I regret every moment of falling in love with you” played through his mind again. From the very beginning, he thought they’d be together again now. Everything would go back to how it used to be. But looking back now, it seemed obvious to him how stupid he was for ever thinking that was possible.
There were times when he didn’t even want to live anymore. He contemplated different suicide options more than once since everything ended, but never actually went through with it, although he came close. Gideon still kept in touch with Noland, and whenever he was having a particularly bad day, Noland made him practice painting. And speaking of that…
“I painted you the other day. I can’t remember if I already told you that or not,” Gideon said as he sat in front of the grave, “I still can’t paint right though, so it was really terrible. It looked like the picture I gave you when I told you I love you, but this time it wasn’t intentionally awful.”Gideon didn’t even know what happened to that picture. Steven probably threw away all the drawings he made for him when they broke up, he assumed. Or maybe he even set them on fire. Gideon had no idea. “Someday, I’ll get better again and I’ll paint you something nice and leave it here for you.”
“I still love you.” Gideon murmured, reaching out and tracing a finger from his good hand along where ‘Malachi’ was carved into the stone, “I’ll always love you. So if there’s an afterlife or something like that…I’ll find you there someday. I promise.” It didn’t matter if Gideon ended up in heaven or hell or something else entirely, he had to find Steven again. Every single day Gideon missed his smile and the sound of his voice and just having him around in general. He missed waking up with Steven beside him, and watching horror movies with him and getting into stupid arguments over the colors of plates with him. No matter what it took, he needed to be with Steven again.
After that, there wasn’t anything left for Gideon to say for now. “I’ll be back soon.” He said to the gravestone as he stood up. There was still something he wanted to see, for the first time in over a year. Just thinking about seeing it again made him feel anxious, but he knew he had no reason to feel that way anymore. He just had to face it.
The church wasn’t a far drive from the cemetery. As soon as Gideon got there, his anxiety started kicking in instantly. After parking, he walked up to the front of the church and stood outside the front door, hesitating. It was abandoned now. There definitely wasn’t anything horrible waiting for him inside, except maybe a hostile homeless person taking shelter in there. Still, the feeling of dread he got from being there didn’t go away. He kept trying to get over those feelings by facing them directly, but they weren’t going away very quickly. He knew he should just go inside, but he didn’t just yet. There were still a lot of horrible memories associated with the church that he really didn’t want to revisit.
2k11 NaNoWriMo excerpts
Evan sighed. “Well…you have a dog or something? Siblings? You like hockey, or football or anything like that?” This guy was just not going to leave Adrian alone.
They finally crossed over to the street Adrian’s house was on. Soon he’d be home and this awkward conversation would be over. “No dog. A brother. I don’t like sports.” Adrian responded flatly, picking up his pace a little as they got closer to his house.
“No sports at all? Not even anything weird?” Evan asked, picking up his pace as well to match Adrian’s. “How about ping pong? Water polo? Mahjong?”
“I don’t think Mahjong is a sport.” Adrian replied, digging his keys out of his pocket. You should know, he didn’t hate Evan or anything. He was actually pretty curious on what the deal was with him. But Adrian was so socially awkward that this was just uncomfortable to the extreme for him.
Evan glanced up at the sky. It was ugly, just a ceiling of lumpy gray clouds. “Yeah? Well I guess you’re right.”
—-
The school wasn’t far. It was only a few blocks away, just slightly farther than where Evan had saved Adrian’s life the evening prior. It was a red brick building, old and due for remodeling. It was easy to spot thanks to the herd of buses and cars and students loitering around outside the building. There was a sign out front with ‘Alexander Hamilton High School – Home of the Hams’ written on it in royal blue lettering.
“The Hams.” Was all Evan said when he saw it. “The Hams.”
Yes, the Hams.
“Yeah, like a pig. Hams.” Adrian told him quietly, walking towards the front doors. “It’s dumb, we know. But I can’t talk to you anymore here.” Adrian had already looked crazy to a random woman on the street. He was not going to make himself look insane in front of all the people he went to school with. Talking to someone who they couldn’t see in front of them would just look really weird.
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Evan said in a fake annoyed tone, waving his hand around, “Don’t want to embarrass yourself by talking to me in front of all the other little hams? I get it. Whatever.” He would not forget the hams. He would bother Adrian with that as much as possible.
Anna Nicole and Mickey Mantle
As Jonathan Owens bled to death on his kitchen floor, with a butter knife wedged between two of his ribs, he thought, ‘Who is going to get my extensive collection of baseball cards when I’m dead? Who is going to feed my goldfish?’ The only person who knew to feed Kurt, Anna Nicole and River was the one who stabbed Jonathan in the first place. If she was going to kill him, she would certainly let his fish die as well. How unfortunate. As for the baseball cards, she would probably set them all on fire and toss the burning remains of Mickey Mantle and Rusty Kuntz out of a second story window, just like she had with the other cards she had gotten a hold of. Also quite unfortunate.
Omaha, Omaha
The red brick-paved streets are lined by old warehouses turned into stylish clothing boutiques, art galleries, music stores and small cafés. Many of the sidewalks are covered by small roofs made of metal, with light pink and white flowers in planters on the edges of them. The uncovered sidewalks have small, leafy trees planted along them, not tall enough to reach the second stories of the buildings. The sides of those brick buildings are covered in old advertisements, painted there decades ago, all across the empty sides of the buildings. Large flocks of pigeons perch on top of these buildings, all in a neat line.
The cars on the brick streets share the roads with draft horses, pulling elegant white carriages wrapped in rope lighting, showing tourists around the district. Among the tourists walking around town is a huge variety of different people. There are the hipsters, in their tight jeans and flannel shirts discussing the latest concerts down at Sokol, the businessmen in pinstripe suits, chatting on their cell phones as they make their way to Scooters Coffee, and couples and groups of friends, laughing loudly as they walk down the sidewalks to one of the sushi houses, or to the skating rink during winter time. Trying to impress these people on each corner, are street performers. Some of them are students at one of the local universities, sitting on the sidewalk with their beat up guitars, singing their hearts out. Some others are artists, offering to paint anyone walking by. More still come out with accordions, violins, trumpets or just their own voices, all artistic people wanting to show off their skill.
The businesses in the district are clean and quiet, and include everything from a small Persian restaurant, to vintage clothing stores, to a Russian gift shop. The stores are all owned by locals, and are places that can’t be found anywhere else. From inside them, you can hear soaring soprano voices and heartfelt cello concertos from the performers just outside the entrances of the buildings. The Omaha’s passion for music comes out especially strong in places like the Old Market, where the city’s most artistic residents and most adventurous business owners gather to create a beautiful shopping district unlike anywhere else around.
Nicotine
By the time they drag him away, you’re on your fourth cigarette of the night. He always told you, “That addiction is gonna kill you, Honey.” But here you are, smoking away like a forest fire. You say they make you feel better, but by now you’re sobbing too hard to even use the lit cigarette between your fingers. It’s burning there uselessly, doing nothing but filling the air with poison while you sit there and wallow in despair. You really need to do something about this nasty addiction, not just to cigarettes, but to dangerous men as well.
Waiting.
“He’s not coming back.”
Scout pranced around in front of the door, looking back at Gideon with her tail wagging. She barked at him twice, looking back and forth between him and the door. It was that time again, when the classes at the nearby high school had just been let out. Scout knew it was that time, and she got excited for it every day. But there was nothing to be excited about anymore.
“He’s never coming back.” Gideon told her more firmly, from where he was sitting at the kitchen table. After a month, he would have thought his dog would have gotten over this habit.
Scout continued barking and whining at the front door. She was sniffing along the bottom of it as if she was trying to smell him coming, but there wasn’t anyone to smell. She sat down in front of the door, her fluffy tail sweeping back and forth across the floor, staring up at the handle, waiting for it to turn and her favorite person in the world to show up.
“Will died.” Gideon told his dog, as he stared down into the cup of coffee that was sitting in front of him. Even after a month, it still hurt just as much to say that. “You can’t keep waiting for him.” Gideon knew she would never understand. She was a dog. She expected that boy to show up every single day, just like he had in the past. Things like death made no sense to her. “Waiting like that just…makes it worse. If you wait like that forever, it only hurts more.”
Scout just stared at Gideon, panting. She turned in a circle before looking back at the door, still waiting for Will to come back. She would never stop waiting.
Trust.
Nothing good ever came from trusting people, ever. Gideon trusted Steven with absolutely everything, and what did he end up with? A hole in his door and in his heart, neither of which were going away any time soon. Trusting people was just stupid, like setting yourself up to be betrayed. Trusting people was like giving them a part of your heart. Gideon gave Steven all of his heart. It was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done.
Every time Gideon came home, he was reminded of it as soon as he saw the hole in his door, left there since Steven decided to give his key to Gideon’s apartment back by shoving it into the middle of his door like a nail. It just reminded Gideon that he was stupid for trusting Steven, and he was completely alone.
He hadn’t been able to paint in weeks. He’d hardly slept. The emptiness was overwhelming. Sitting around thinking about it so much just made it hurt more, but there was nothing else to do. His inspiration was completely gone. Some mornings he woke up and still expected Steven to be right there next to him, but he never was.
Birthdays.
Having a birthday on Christmas was like not having a birthday at all. Really, think about it. Everyone was too busy getting excited over the smartphone the big fat guy in red brought them, that would be outdated in a month. They were too busy nearly peeing themselves over the snazzy red bike that was parked next to their pre-lit synthetic Douglas fir, the bike that they would smash into the neighbor down the street’s oak tree before the following summer was over. Everything was about the presents you were getting. Nobody really believed that ‘the greatest gift is giving crap’. Christmas morning, everyone was more concerned with the fact that they were getting presents, not the spirit of giving, not even the birth of the son of the big man upstairs, much less the birth of any normal human being.
So nobody ever cared on the frosty morning of December 25th that it was Hal Wieczorek’s birthday. Everything was about presents and whether or not Santa (aka: Dad) had eaten the snickerdoodles left on the mantle the night before. There was always a chorus of ‘Happy birthdays’ but there weren’t parties or extra presents or pin the tail on the donkey or other typical birthday things. Growing up, Hal’s mom told him he was special, to make him feel better for not getting to have a normal birthday. She told him he shared a birthday with Jesus, and was blessed. Too bad Hal didn’t believe in Jesus.
Jeremy was the oldest brother. His birthdays were always a big deal. The guy was constantly hitting some kind of milestone, turning 16, turning 18, turning 21, and on and on. Casey was the youngest, so his birthdays were always some sort of big dramatic event filled with repetitions of “I can’t believe my baby is growing up so fast!” Hal was the middle child. An unfunny version of Frankie Muniz in Malcom in the Middle. The ‘Jesus baby’. The one whose birthday was just an afterthought, neither the first nor the last of anything. Hal’s birthdays weren’t anything for his mother to weep about with the galpals on a Friday night at Chilis. It was always just, “Yep, Hal turned 19 this year.” And that was that.
