June

I'm a liar.

It's something I knew about myself from the beginning.
They say that it's easy to lie to others, and that it's even easier to lie to yourself.
But that's only if you're not aware of that fact that you're a liar in the first place.
I knew.
And I wish that I didn't.
I wish that I could swim in that sea of ambiguity, of living life two-dimensionally, where everything is black and white, right and wrong, and every action and feeling is genuine. Perhaps like an animal. Perhaps like a human. Like a person, I guess.

When did it start? 

Ah, yes. When did it start. Perhaps when I was unaware. Perhaps when I became aware. Or maybe that, in itself, is another lie. Perhaps it's always been starting. Or maybe it never started in the first place.

Forever at the starting line.
Forever at the finish line.
Always the same.

No one will pull the trigger. The race will never begin.
You'll be sat, waiting there. Waiting.
And the race will never end.
Because it will never start.

I arrived.

My breaths froze in midair, puffing out in smalls clouds. It was a cold night; the weather said it would rain later tonight.
No.
I said that it would rain later tonight.

Haha
I laughed quietly to myself, looking up at the clock face. The architecture was as tacky as ever.

So this was it.


    The sound of rushed breath, and the sound of the crunch of leaves alerted me to the other person.
Ah yes, the other player.

He sure didn't look too good. Pale and all.

"~Ah."
I sighed.

It's time I guess.
Either way,
I sure am sick of lying.

Anthony

It was junior high, third year, ninth grade. English class.
    Romeo and Juliet. The one day I did the reading.
    The desks in Mrs. Sherley's room were arranged in a half-circle facing the board, two rows deep. My partner, a mousey girl who sat on my right, was absent that day.
    What was her name again? Kate? Katelyn? Something like that.
    Oh well, it's not like it matters much anyways.
So, she was absent. The Kate girl. And there was someone in her spot. Another girl.

It wasn't necessarily that strange of an occurrence, but it was enough to make me feel a little off. Our seats were set, and even if they weren't, nobody in our class had the habit of changing their seating order. Moreover, though I wasn't a social butterfly, and constantly forgot people's faces, I was pretty sure this girl was not in my class. However, it was true that she looked familiar enough that I couldn't help but take multiple glances in her direction.

Mrs. Sherley walked into the room, clapped her hands, as was her habit, and the class started. I put the girl out of my mind. She was probably a transfer student, or someone visiting. It didn't matter either way. I most likely wouldn't be talking to her anyways.

Today was discussion day. Which was why the seats were set in a circular fashion. What this meant, was that the entire class period was dedicated to talking about various subjects in whatever reading we had recently finished (in this case, Romeo and Juliet). Everyone had to talk at least three times to get the full amount of points for the exercise.

In other words: it was a pain.

I kept quiet, inwardly rolling my eyes at nearly every comment and argument. Whether the whole story was about teenage hormones and stupidity, or a beautifully tragic romance, it didn't really matter to me. I never understood either of those things anyways. The sentimentalists arguing for the 'purity' of the story, and the logical crowd who curved them with the silliness of the characters actions both missed the point.
The point was, that they were dead.

They were dead, and they weren't coming back from that.
No matter what their family did after that, it couldn't justify or explain anything.
It's all over once you're dead.
Everything. Anything. Game over.
So what did it matter, anyways?

The grade didn't matter to me. I hadn't placed my value on a simple letter in a long time. So I kept quiet.

...

    "But, if Romeo and Juliet were willing to go so far for one another, even if it started out as infatuation, couldn't you say that it changed into true love?"

The sentimentalists.

    "Hmm, I don't think so. I mean, I doubt that Romeo wanted her to die just because he did, or that she would if she was dead. I mean, they didn't even put any thought about how the other would react in such a situation."

The logicists.

    "Yeah, and what about their families? Would 'True Love' really mean dropping everything just for one person? I think they were just selfish."

A momentary pause. A few grunts of admission here and there.
Sentimentalists regaining their bearings. And-

    "Or maybe it was the family that was selfish."

I jerked up. The voice was close, but unfamiliar.
It was the girl next to me.

    "Their families didn't seem to really care much about either one of them. Or, even if they did, didn't really care enough to put any value on what they wanted, or who they were. They cared more about themselves and their old-age argument, and seemed to treat the both of them as more of a treasured object than a human being."

...no. You're wrong.

    She was wrong.

    "So, maybe it wasn't just their love for one another that drove them to suicide. Maybe it was their family. And if that's the case, I don't see how their feelings would matter in the end at all. Who cares if they were selfish? Their family was selfish as well. So what does it matter?"

    "...It matters"
huh?
    "Of course it matters. What are you, stupid?"
What?
    "Even if their families were somewhat selfish and unwilling to understand, that can't justify killing yourself- those two things are not equal! Do you think that just because your family hurts you, it's okay to reject any possible feelings they might have for you, and treat them the same as a stranger? Or an object? Do you think it's okay to throw away your life for something as stupid and delusional as 'true love'? Or for any reason, not even bothering to think about the people left behind? There's no justification for that. There's not any pretty words for that either. It's just plain irresponsible! You can't just write off others wily-nily like that!"

Everyone in the class was staring at me. Mrs. Sherley was frozen, with her eyes wide open.

The girl stared at me, forehead tense.

Oh. Oh. It was me.
I was talking.

    "Yes you can."
The girl stared at dead in the eye.

    "You can definitely write others off. Most of them don't even deserve to be kept around. So what about a family's feelings? You'll eventually leave them anyways, if they don't leave you first. Why should you care about someone else, when they don't even care enough about you to warrant it?"

She spoke to me. Her whole body exuding dominance and control, facing me like an adult would a child. I see, so I was the child here.

I hated it.
I hated her.  

    I opened my mouth again to scream at her, when Mrs. Sherley suddenly unfroze and butted in. No doubt, worried about the sewage like atmosphere that had taken over the class. That I dispensed. That I was the fault of.
   
    "Anthony, are you feeling alright? Do you need to go to the nurses office?"

    Ah, yes, she knew. She knew about it. And that's why she was sickeningly sympathetic. I could smell the pity coming off of her in waves every time I appeared in front of her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to-

    I shook my head.
    "No, I don't feel that well, Mrs. Sherley. I might need to go home early. I'll stop by the nurses office on the way," I said.

I gathered together my books and backpack, the quiet, rustling noise of it permeating through the entire classroom. Without looking at anything, I walked my way to the door.

By some kind of cursed curiosity, I chanced a glance back at the girl who had stolen the place of my partner. I must have been wondering if she was smirking in victory, glad at my defeat. What was her facial expression like?

But she wasn't smirking. Nor did she look ashamed of her part in my outburst.
No, she was looking at me, confused and unsure. As though she was wondering what kind of species I was. Wait, no, that wasn't it- was it-,
But I didn't have time to make sure.

So I walked out the door.

I never saw her again.

Anthony

Giovanni's gone missing.
Ever since the other day, when Campanella stopped appearing even at the weird time he does. I let Giovanni outside, and he hasn't come back.
    It's like he's looking for him.
But now I have to look for him, instead.
How come we're both living, yet chasing after something dead? I don't get it.
    Ah.
    Well, I guess I've been quiet about it for too long. I'll come open now. So, yes. Um. My brother.
    He's dead.
    Well, let's just say that when I was ten, he decided that it would be funner to hang himself than do homework. Or listen to my mom. Or- or, well, something.
    I honestly have no idea. It's been years, and I still don't know.
    I'll probably never know- actually I can't know. Because I'm not him. So it doesn't matter how much I try and rationalize it- I can't understand. The evidence doesn't even match the person anymore.
    But it is weird. One day he was alive, and he even laughed at some dumb joke I made about a video game we played at the time. Then, the next day, when I got home from school, he was gone. At that moment, I just thought he was getting home late. But minutes, eventually turned into hours, and before I knew it, my parents were home, and the police were home, too. The time spent not knowing- hoping- questioning. It was like some sick nightmare. I thought it was just another day- no- it was just another day. That's what made it so wrong.
    It wasn't raining, there was no major earthquake, zombies weren't littering the streets. It was just another sunny, sparsely cloudy day. I remember watching the neighbor kid playing on his bike from the park that I could see from the back window of my room. He always did that. It was normal.
    They found him the day after- somewhere in the mountains. His backpack was at his feet, apparently. A hiker found him.
    My brother used to fold paper airplanes all the time. He had an avid interest in aircraft, actually. There were models of different flying machines hanging from his ceiling. There were always paper airplanes on the floor- dining room, living room, anywhere. It annoyed my mother, who always had to pick them up. I guess she didn't have to do that anymore.
    We used to play in the park behind the house a lot. Hide and seek, tag, other such stuff. Usually, it was just us. But, actually, I think I remember someone else. I never knew her name, but she played with us sometimes too. I didn't go out to the park after I was ten, so I never ended up learning it. It was probably something pretty, though. Something that would've fit her nature. I wish I knew it.
    I don't know what I'm going on about, though.
    I have to go look for Giovanni, now.
    I can't let him disappear too.

June

    I've lived in this room for a long time. I haven't left, not even to get a drink of water, unless it's night time. The reason being, of course- the unwelcome presence of that scum in human clothing. He's always here for some reason. Everything he does annoys me; watching sports TV at high volume, drinking early in the morning, served food on a silver platter by my mother, etc. Frankly, he just has to breathe to get me on edge.
I know why, of course.
It's because he's family.
    "Family" is such a loaded term. Every time it's mentioned, whether it's in books, media, or just the neighbors talking next door, it always seems to represent something irreplaceable, something to be treasured. I don't get it. Because, see, even in a home that's filled with people that are related by blood, they don't necessarily know one another. And just because they're related, doesn't mean that they want to, either. Although, because they are in the same building does mean that they have to understand some semblance of the other person. Understanding doesn't equal love, however.
Haha, Love. Another loaded term.
I think I'll stop while I'm ahead.
The main point is: I wouldn't have to hate him if he was a stranger.
My life would be a lot easier then.
    Honestly, although I live with my mother, I don't think I love her. I don't think she loves me, either. I'm just a necessary burden.
    "The willingness to understand" is probably a good enough definition for what I might classify under "love". It's effort put into empathy.
The willingness is key, actually.
    Even though I understand my mother and her intentions, I never actually wanted to understand them. Ever.
    I was out of books to read.
    So I came out of my room.
    "Bryan," she was saying, "what if we had another one?"
I stopped, hidden in the hallway.
    He grunted. An ambiguous reply.
    "I know it's been hard on you, these past few years, being everywhere and anywhere-"
    I peeked around the corner. She was leaning on him from the back.
    "-It's been hard on me too, being here alone. I've been waiting for you this whole time, you know? It's not like I'm blaming you though, I understand why you left. After what happened, with your parents, too...Bryan?"
    I saw him take a swig of something and sigh. The sports announcer on the TV was still blaring out unnecessary narration in the background.
    "...Yeah, I guess it's been hard," he relented.
My legs were frozen. By now I had expected one of his usual violent retorts- smashing the glass on the floor, or screaming, or both. This was wrong.
    She continued.
    "...So, I've been thinking, since it's been so hard for the both us, that we should just give up and try again. We were both young and stupid back then. We didn't know how to be a family."
    "mmm," he agreed, quietly.
    "I still love you, Bryan."
    Everything was still for a moment.
    "Will you create a new family with me?"
  
    Anchor baby.
    Failed marriage.
    Unsuccessful birth.
    I didn't really care to ever have to understand these things.    
    Honestly.
    What a pain.

    I guess it's over now.

Anthony

    I walked to the clock-tower today. Although it's a "clock tower", to call it such is somewhat of an insult to what you might call a "real" clock tower. It's tall, to be sure, but made of cheap materials that make you think it could fall over at any moment. Pieces of the support have already crumbled onto the nearby grass and sidewalk, reminding one of dandruff on a hermit old man. It sits in a park in a similar state. With only grass and trees, it can attract no children. It could've been able to supply picnic space, if it wasn't for the perpetually muddy ground, caused by overactive sprinklers. I remember that at one point, this park was the main attraction of the surrounding neighborhood before a newer, less dirty edition showed up on the east side. Now the only people who come here are unhappy dog-walkers, and the elusive bagpipers I can hear occasionally from my apartment.
    I sat on a bench near the structure, and ate my lunch. The entrance to the spiral staircase leading up the inside of the tower was chained shut for safety measures. The landing at the top has no fence or such to keep one from falling off after all, and the city wanted to avoid lawsuits and such, I assume. The stairs were still visible from where I was sitting, though, and uncomfortable images of two young boys running up and down them appeared in my mind before I shook them away. It wasn't time for that.
    In any case, my visit to the clock tower seemed to be pointless. There was nothing unusual about it; it was the same as I remembered. I finished my sandwich, and glanced about. So far nothing pointed towards Campanella's little weirdness about chimes and whatever. I might as well go back home, I figured, and checked my phone for the time: 12:34. In a moment of childish curiosity, I wondered if the time on my phone matched up with the time on the clock face. I squinted at the tower: 12:00 sharp. I watched it for a moment, but nothing on it was moving. It was stuck, I realized. A dog walker passed next to me on the grass, and I asked him about it.
    "Oh, yeah, it's been stopped for what, a couple of years now? City won't fix it, doesn't want to pour money into anything but their own pockets. It's those in charge, I tell you, they're all corrupt, every last one of them. I mean, I heard that just this month, Mr. Fernigan-"
    I managed to smile and nod, before twisting the topic back to what I was interested in.
    "So, it's been stopped, right? How is it ringing every night then?"
    "Huh? Ringing? It's stopped ringing, though. I live just a street over, and I haven't heard anything from this thing in a couple of years. Where've you been hearing this ringing, man?"
    Huh? What? I was stumped.
    "Oh, I thought it was from here, but I guess it must've been something else close to my house. Thanks anyways," I made an excuse on the fly.
    The dog walker continued talking about his own life for several minutes before his dog got antsy and dragged him away to my relief.
    I stared at the clock face. If it wasn't ringing every night, then where was that sound coming from? Or was it the clock-tower making the noise, but only with me able to hear it? I mean, I have a ghost cat, so I guess hearing an non-existent noise isn't too much stranger than that. It then occurred to me that maybe it wasn't the world that was weird, but perhaps my own mind. If it wasn't me then why was all these strange things happening with only me being able to experience them?
    But I laughed it off. I have never been one to doubt my own perception of reality for very long.
    Although reality has always felt very surreal since that day, reality is reality, and no one can change that, let alone me.
    I walked home.

Shadows

     I was very imaginative as a child; a gift I am glad I have not kept as an adult. When my mother had tucked me in and the lights had gone off, I would stare at the ceiling before going to sleep. In the darkness of the room, and the bits of light left in my eyes, I would see thousands of different shapes dancing across the ceiling. I saw dogs padding across a field, baskets floating down rivers filled with ducks, people talking to one another, or looking off into the distance, and even a marching band parade. I could change the shapes to fit whatever vision I wanted, a game that I played nearly every night. It was mostly enjoyable.
    The problem came when I began to see things that I didn't want to. Visions of people staring back at me, crouched in the corner of the bedroom. My mind began to wander outside the confounds of 2d characters on a simple ceiling background and found itself creating 3d ones in the room around me. From a shadow created from a bookshelf, I would see a small girl, watching me. I ended up spending many nights in my mothers bed, peering fearfully around me.
    Not many of the visions lasted more than once. By the time I turned seven years old, I simply stopped engaging my mind in that direction. I no longer saw the scenes that plagued my mind at night. Except for one.
    A tall, dark figure standing near the doorway. Never moving, just watching, with absolutely no distinguishable features of any kind. Even when my family moved houses, the figure followed me; showing up near the entrance to whatever room I slept in. I was absolutely terrified of this figure. The only way I was able to sleep at night was to not look at it and pretend it didn't exist. I didn't have a name for the figure at first, but at some point I decided that it was death, my personal death, waiting to take me to the other side. I never knew when it would inch from the corner of the room to my bedside to take me away. But it never did move.
    During my early adolescence, I forgot this figure existed. After some tumultuous experiences and relationships within my circle of people, I didn't have time to pay attention to a childhood nightmarish fantasy. It wasn't until I was nineteen that I recognized it again, stoic in the middle of the room. But, strangely, I wasn't terrified this time. It was always there, an absolute truth in the midst of life's ephemeral lies. Something I could hang onto as things fell apart, an anchor to keep me guided. I knew that even if I was entirely alone in the world, stuck in a dumpster in some degenerate alleyway, that death would be there, waiting to take me away from it all. The medicine for the ills of living.
    I watch for it every night before I fall asleep. As it statically creeps closer and closer every time the sun goes down. I am comforted by it, just as much as I am repulsed. It is what it is. And there's nothing more than that.

June

He's back.

disgusting.

My father.

The man who got my mother pregnant.

The stupid bitch is, of course, overflowing with joy.
She doesn't even see a reason to acknowledge me anymore. Not that she ever did in the first place.

I was just a link. A broken one, yet the only one left.

He's just lazing around, drinking beer and smoking pot, leering at the neighbors daughter.

He won't even look at me.
Well, yeah.
Let's just ignore things that are a nuisance for you, shall we?
After all, that's how you've lived your whole life so far, why stop now?

From what I've heard here and there, he's only here because he ran out of funds for his "home business". I bet they ran out on cigs and prostitutes.

Hah.

This is stupid.

That retarded cat hasn't even shown up.

What the hell is it doing?

Slacking on the job? 

I've waited this long for something to happen. I can't stand it anymore.

I'm sick of her sitting in my room, staring at the empty goldfish bowl every time he happens to go out.
I guess even she knows what he's doing.

I mean, yeah, it's all normal.

It's just, I mean...

Weren't you supposed to save me?