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Written for HT100 Challenge #95: Same name, different story
Wake Me When It's Over
by Ralu
"One of these days we're all gonna be dead. And we won't even know it."
The guy's name is John. John Blackhorse.
"Blackhorse. Is that like Indian?" he asks him after evening lockdown, while taking off his boots.
"Native American," he replies, leaning over the top bunk. "My dad was Cayuse...although I ain't got no fucking clue what that is. My mother was from New Orleans. Half French, all the way from the Ivory Coast. Most beautiful skin I've ever seen."
Miscegenation. Just one word spinning through his head.
Vern would've *loved* this.
"How about you?"
"Beats me," he answers, stretching onto the bottom bunk.
The Kellers come out of nowhere and head in the same direction, for all he knows.
And then:
"You've got a hole in your sock."
The last thing he says to him that evening, just before lights go out.
Next morning, he's dead. And he didn't even know it.
Chris' socks have always had holes in them.
***
He turns on his side and sighs. No whimpers, no crying. No nightmares.
Chris doesn't know if that's good or bad. Or horrible.
Chris doesn't really care.
(Burning matches in the darkness.)
Chris can't live without it.
"Philosophy."
He pronounces the letters like it's supposed to mean something. Like he's expecting something. From him.
"A philosopher," he growls back, smiling. And for the tiniest moment, the guy frowns, smile fading a little bit.
Take it. Take it, I dare you.
Stupid.
Stupid fucking kid.
Beecher's pale calf sticks out from the blanket in the dim light filtering from outside the pod. And he sighs again.
Chris doesn't know if that's good or bad. Or horrible.
Sometimes he wonders if he can actually tell the difference.
If he ever could.
***
He breathes in, he breathes out.
At times, he tries to focus on his breathing, like Bonnie had once told him.
"Breathe in and breathe out. Slowly. It will work, I tell you, read it in a magazine," she says, fingers brushing softly across his forehead. "Just...keep trying, baby."
Just keep breathing.
But Chris can't. He just don't have it in him, never did.
And Bonnie...she probably knew that too. Just like she knew everything else.
"One of these days we're all gonna be dead. And we won't even know it."
He whispers the words very, very slowly, tapping his fingers onto the edge of the bunk.
He waits, but he hears nothing.
And so he whispers again. And again. And again.
Until the words finally melt on the tip of his tongue and his fingers stop tapping.
Chris' socks have always had holes in them.
Please send feedback to Ralu.
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