Thorns Of Glass by Kelly Knobf

Prologue

           

            Her body was heavier than he thought, almost as heavy as the other had been. He grunted, tossing her dead weight over his shoulder, where it settled like a soft bag of cement.

            The stairwell was narrow, and when he swayed to the side, her head hit the wall, once, twice…until he righted himself. The sound of it meant nothing to him; she meant nothing to him.  

            Crying from upstairs…he would deal with it later. For now, he had to move. This was his second trip down the steps. His arms were sore and his back ached with fiery knots, but he ignored his muscle’s protests; he was almost done. He dropped her to the floor on top of the green quilt from her bed, and grabbed her feet.   

            The fabric of the soft blanket swished against the worn, wooden floor with each tug on her legs. The sound was soothing in his ears; calming his thumping chest and dulling the headache in his temples. The sound was right. It spoke to him. She did this. She did this…she made you do this…

            All the lights in the house were off, except the light outside the back door. He flicked the switch before lifting her body again, through the doorway, and dropping her on the ground outside.

            This time when he pulled on her feet, there was resistance. She didn’t slide through the grass as easily as she had on the hardwood floor. He yanked harder, and she barely moved. He dug into the wet lawn with his boots. Each step with his foot was matched with a yank on her legs, but the progress was slow. He gave up, and lifted her once more. His arms and back screamed again, but he told them, just a little more. He carried her across the yard, to where the grass ended in an expanse of dark soil.

            The lawn was sparse here, choked out by spiny vines that shot from the ground and curled toward the sky. Some of the tendrils came to his waist, others to his knees. They left the ground alone, meeting atop the earth, and twining together in a green weaving dance.

            They were young, but their thorns had already acquired their sharp bite. Their arms glowed in the moonlight, and their leaves waved hello as he entered among them.

            But he wasn’t in the mood to talk; he had work to do. A path had already been made, but there were stragglers among the briars. He stomped on the stems closest to his legs, making more room for him and his load.

            He stopped next to a hole in the ground when he reached the center of the growing patch. It was big enough for what he needed to do; more than enough, he saw. In his fervor, he had dug much deeper and wider than he needed to. But that was alright. That was just fine.

            He dropped her flat on her back beside her freshly dug grave. Her head lolled to the side, but her eyes looked up at the moon. Leaves and dirt decorated her long white dress.

            He wiped his forehead. It was chilly out, but he was hot and sweating beneath his flannel shirt. He didn’t let her finish gazing at the moon, there was no more time for that. He pushed with his heavy boot, prodding her side until she rolled over. He pushed her again, leaning down this time and giving her a final shove with his hands.

            She landed face down. Fine black sprinkles fell about her head from the sides of the hole. He waited a moment, seeing her with his back to him…always with her back to him. It made him angry, and he kicked dirt over the side.

            The shovel was on the ground behind him. He quickly grabbed it and thrust the blade into the pile of loose, wet soil by his feet. He threw the dirt on her head first, scoop after scoop, until all that was visible was the white of her dress. He patted the soil down hard and tight, and then threw in more. He beat it down with the shovel until his anger was satisfied, and he could cover the rest of her.

            When she was buried and gone, he went back to the dark house. The crying was coming from downstairs now, in the living room, but he didn’t give it his attention. He wasn’t done yet. He took his keys from his pocket and went back down the hall and out the front door.

            He didn’t look in the bed of his truck. He didn’t need to, he knew what was there. But he wasn’t going to let them be together; he wasn’t going to give them that. They were never going to be together again…she should have listened.

            He looked around the street, only briefly worried about prying eyes, before he opened the driver door. He started the motor and pulled onto the street, leaving his headlights off until he hit the end of it.

            He glanced in the rearview mirror once and thought he saw the flutter of white cloth, like a sheet hung out in the breeze. But, no, he knew it couldn’t be true. It was his mind playing tricks; his nerves getting the best of him. He shook it off and turned the corner, leaving the house behind him, and out of sight.

            But she had seen clearly, standing in the shadows with her hands reaching toward the winking taillights. She watched as he drove away. She screamed, but he didn’t hear her. She saw, but he only thought he saw her.

Chapter 1

                They say when you die it’s like traveling down a tunnel with a blinding white light at the end, and everyone you ever knew and loved; everyone who has gone before you, will be there to welcome you home. But it wasn’t like that at all. Not for me. It was more like stepping from one world to the next; trading one bleak existence for another.

            Maybe there is a tunnel. Something connecting this world to the next, but I never got that far. I could have turned my back on all of it. Left it behind me and entered whatever lay beyond where I am now. Another life…heaven? I don’t know. What I do know, is I resisted. I denied the force that was beckoning me, and I chose to stay here, surrounded by a solid, breathing world I will never be part of again.

            Maybe I should have gone. I should have left and found that tunnel or doorway, or whatever it is, and never looked back. Should have left my pain in this world and started fresh in another. But there’s a funny thing about all that pain and hurt after you die. It becomes more than just emotions. It becomes almost palpable; hot and sticky, and adhering you in place. I think, sometimes, I wouldn’t have been able to leave it all behind even if I had wanted to.

            The pain made my decision a hasty one. I couldn’t separate myself from the agony that screamed for justice. I didn’t take the time to really consider my choice, or step back and try to fully understand what my decision meant.  

            Dahli says it’s unfair, cruel even, that we are given such a drastic decision without knowing the consequences. She says we should have come to the resolution with balanced hearts, not ones that had been ripped from our chests and set on fire. She’s right of course. But what if we never really have a choice? What if us choosing to stay was just part of a bigger plan we can’t see? I’ve considered the possibility that Dahli and I are merely smaller parts of a large cosmic game; pawns or checkers, or whatever.

            But even with her resentment toward whatever power holds us here, Dahli can’t accept that. She has to believe we have free will. “After all,” she says. “We were given the choice to stay or go, right?” She has a point. But I always thought free will was a continuance, not a one-time shot. If we truly have free will, why are we stuck here? Drifting unknown through the lives of the living? If volition exists here, in death, it is in small quantities.

            She has been here much longer than me. Long enough that the bitterness and anger that lay over me was still black and fresh when we met, while hers had evolved into something resembling acceptance. And I hated her then, hated everything about her. Her willingness to help me, her kind words, and her very presence was a constant reminder of what I had become. I let my rage lash out at her, forcing her to stay at a distance, but she always came back.  Always in the background, coming close to me only when she sensed I would finally let her. She never said anything in those moments. She simply took my hand in hers, brushing her fingers across my palm.

            Dahli says I can still be bitter, and I suppose it’s true. It’s unavoidable, though she denies it in herself. She is a true optimist, even in this mundane limbo we drift in, but there are times weariness envelopes her too.  These are her moments; times when she can become lost in front of a window, longing for the world beyond this place, a scowl beneath her soft features. These are the times when it’s my turn to hold her hand.

            We are quite the pair, two lost souls searching for truth. Brought together by coincidence, and bonded by death. When we met we shared a common hatred, and a common goal. It’s what melded us together, and formed the foundation we sit on top of. It’s funny to me how in death, I found the truest friend I have ever had. At least, that I remember having.

            Lately I find my memories have grown dim around the edges and half hidden in a fog. My mom and brother’s faces are becoming vague. Special moments I shared with them are disorganized in my mind, and some are gone all together. I try to recall Christmases and birthday parties, but can only grasp at the fragments left behind. Dahli says this happened with her too. She says many of the memories she has left, are the ones she wants to forget most.

            I have been trying to counteract it, trying to push the obscurity aside and focus on details; my mom’s curly blonde hair, my brother’s deep brown eyes. The time the three of us went to the beach. We drove for four hours (or was it days?) just to play in the sand for a little while before heading back home. This is one of my favorites, a time when it was just three of us, and it’s almost gone.

            I close my eyes and see my mom’s profile from the passenger seat. She is laughing. The sunlight coming in her window causes her to pull her sunglasses down from her head, and over her eyes. She turns toward me. Her mouth moves with a question, but I can’t hear what it is.

            In my mind, I look to the back seat at my brother, James. He is buckled snugly into his car seat, one foot kicking, up, down, while he watches the scenery pass by. I reach back and grab his little black shoe, give his foot a shake, and he laughs, but there is no sound.

            I remember the open sea looming in the horizon and the golden sand spread out before us, but the melody of the ocean breeze and crashing waves is gone. Was it a sandcastle James and I built, or did he bury me in the sand? I squeeze my eyes tighter, concentrate, but the images are growing faint, and I don’t know how much longer until this memory will evaporate like so many others.

            Losing the ability to remember who you used to be, and who you loved most, is as confusing as it is painful. And as heart-breaking as it is for me, to have my mom and James slowly picked out of my mind, it’s not the worst part. It’s the feelings I am left with. What I am losing in recollection, I am gaining in emotion.

            The holes left from my fading memories are being filled with all my love, hate, and anger…my sadness. It’s all pouring in, sloshing around inside me and weighing me down. I am left wondering; where will the outlet be for all these magnified feelings once I have no retrospect to connect them with?

            Details. I have to remember details; go over them slowly, lingering on what my consciousness can still recall. My mom’s red fingernail polish…James’ messy brown hair…Mom’s chipped front tooth...James’ long eyelashes, so much like his big brother’s…

            The only problem with this game I play is the way the good memories start to flow into the bad. The more I concentrate on the shape of my mom’s face, the easier it is to see a bruise across her cheekbone. The more I let myself imagine James’ deep, innocent eyes, the more I can see the fear in them. It’s like Dahli said, the good ones are fading first.

            Ray. Even in death, after all this time, I spit his name from my lips. The emptier my mind becomes, the more room there is for him to emerge and push my mom and James to the background. I see his greasy hair and dirty hands; his bloodshot eyes and the sneer across his mouth. Everything he was, and everything I hated about him, is still fresh, bright and vivid.

            When I tell Dahli, she only nods her head and looks away from me at nothing (at her own memories, perhaps) and her silence says, There’s nothing we can do. It is what it is. Out loud she says, “Maybe, Sam, you should stop trying so hard to remember.” I can’t answer her when she says this. I think I’m afraid she’s right, but I can’t bear the thought of forgetting. I have to keep looking back, because I’m not ready to let them go.

            Even if it means I have to look past his face to see them.

                In my clearest memories, the ones closest to my death, he is a constant; lurking in the background, but more often lately, he’s in the forefront. I try to sift through what’s left in my head, something from that time that he wasn’t part of, but it’s useless. He was part of everything then; sliding into our lives so neatly.

            Like a key in a lock that won’t turn.

            Dahli understands. Her memories are filled with Ray too. The ones she still has that is. At least I can still see the ones I loved and who loved me. Dahli has nothing left to draw from when she looks back. He is all she can see.

            The day will come when he is gone too and we will forget why we are where we are; why our hearts ache and our eyes stream with tears. It’s bittersweet; to look forward and know the price we are paying to have him gone from our thoughts. To forget who he was won’t take away what he did. It won’t change our hearts.

            For now, we wait. For anything…for nothing. And we remember. We remember because remembering is the closest thing we have to being alive again.

            It seems impossible it will all be gone. I will look around me and forget why I am sad; why my chest burns. I will yearn for them, but I won’t know who they are. My mom and brother will be shadows inside my head, I chase in vain. Missing them now is almost a blessing when I think of the inevitable.

            My attempts to keep them with me are hollow. I know this from watching Dahli. I know this because they are leaving me despite how hard I hold on to them. Still, I try to convince myself the ability to recall has to be strengthened like a weak muscle. I know it’s not true, but I am too desperate to hang on. So, like a tape in a machine, I hit play, close my eyes and watch. I go through every word spoken, every tear shed. The good and the bad, it doesn’t matter. I need it all.