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.