Taj Lalwani (16)
Good Friends
“Smartphones lead to an increase in fear of strangers,” Patrick read. He looked up from the newspaper, sitting back, eyes shining distinctly behind his thick frames. “It’s funny; we’re supposed to write horror stories. I was going to write a story about strangers, but maybe I shouldn’t. There’s already enough stigma against them.” He looked up toward the ceiling for a second, the ends of his lips curled down in slight nervousness. “Then what should I write? Do you have any suggestions?”
Elise considered setting down her teacup but kept it in her hands. “No, Patrick. You know I don’t write fiction.”
“You should try it someday,” he suggested. Then he stood up, turned around, and walked down the hallway and up the stairs. From behind, his messily styled, prematurely grey hair was his only identifier. Elise had always thought of him as a sensitive guy, except for when he left you. He always left you so quickly and suddenly. Left you back in your own world.
He also left three quarters of a croissant and half a packet of jam on the table. On an impulse, Elise picked up the croissant and shoved it into her mouth. She chewed slowly. She had expected it to taste good, and it took her a second to process that it tasted off—unlike anything else she had ever eaten. It was slightly fruity and strangely metallic. But it wasn’t just taste. Chewing the croissant seemed to evoke other senses, senses she wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt before. Small vibrations and pops and deflations and stagnancies. The only one she could really describe was a ring-shaped tingling circumvolving her head. She was struck with a sudden discord and spit the piece of croissant cautiously back onto the plate, leaving it on the lobby table and heading up towards her office, blending into the thinly dispersed crowd of grey suits.
Good Friends
“Smartphones lead to an increase in fear of strangers,” Patrick read. He looked up from the newspaper, sitting back, eyes shining distinctly behind his thick frames. “It’s funny; we’re supposed to write horror stories. I was going to write a story about strangers, but maybe I shouldn’t. There’s already enough stigma against them.” He looked up toward the ceiling for a second, the ends of his lips curled down in slight nervousness. “Then what should I write? Do you have any suggestions?”
Elise considered setting down her teacup but kept it in her hands. “No, Patrick. You know I don’t write fiction.”
“You should try it someday,” he suggested. Then he stood up, turned around, and walked down the hallway and up the stairs. From behind, his messily styled, prematurely grey hair was his only identifier. Elise had always thought of him as a sensitive guy, except for when he left you. He always left you so quickly and suddenly. Left you back in your own world.
He also left three quarters of a croissant and half a packet of jam on the table. On an impulse, Elise picked up the croissant and shoved it into her mouth. She chewed slowly. She had expected it to taste good, and it took her a second to process that it tasted off—unlike anything else she had ever eaten. It was slightly fruity and strangely metallic. But it wasn’t just taste. Chewing the croissant seemed to evoke other senses, senses she wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt before. Small vibrations and pops and deflations and stagnancies. The only one she could really describe was a ring-shaped tingling circumvolving her head. She was struck with a sudden discord and spit the piece of croissant cautiously back onto the plate, leaving it on the lobby table and heading up towards her office, blending into the thinly dispersed crowd of grey suits.
*
Donna set her beer bottle down loudly. It was nearly half full, but Elise could tell the night was coming to a close. “So,” Elise began, slumping her upper body over the table, half in tiredness and half in half-drunkenness. “Do you have any aspirations for when…”—she swallowed slowly—“when life gives you a chance?”
Donna looked to Elise’s left in a moment of pondering. “No. I don’t.” She quivered lightly, which was uncharacteristic of her. The world rocked forwards and backwards dizzily as they passed the moments between speech. “I’m just taking things one at a time. No; I’m just fine with things as they are now.” She smiled. It suddenly struck Elise how large the house was for a 30-something year old woman who lived alone. “I’m happy,” Donna said, interrupting her thought. “I’m happy.” Again. Loudly. There was a tear in her eye. Elise took another sip of her beer. It was her third, and Donna was on her first and wasn’t going to have another.
“I don’t get it,” Elise moaned, finally losing her composed shell. “How are you so happy?”
Again Donna took a moment to consider. “You know, I really don’t know. I think it’s just that I’m taking things one at a time.” It wasn’t the answer Elise wanted. She wanted counseling. She wanted something she could understand, but she didn’t understand how to get there.
“I’m gonna be a big journalist,” Elise started. She knew she had told this to Donna before; she knew it sounded stupid and childish. “The papers are gonna know my name.”
“I know you will,” Donna said genuinely, sobered from her happiness. But Elise was still missing something, some guidance. Donna looked at her now. “Elise, if you ever need anything, I’m here.” She knew Elise was missing something. Elise couldn’t take it. Their conversation paused, the slowness of each interaction settling like oil on water.
Elise stood up. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she announced. She walked out the kitchen door, through the living room, and into the library. She stopped for a second. There was a large bug on the wall, crawling gradually as if the dim light was a thick muck. It must have been at least the size of her thumb, but she had never seen a bug like it. It was blood red, and its wings and body were barely distinct under a thick ooze that moved with the bug instead of dribbling off as it should. She felt an activation of some sense she couldn’t describe, and was reminded of the croissant she ate earlier in the week. “Donna?” she called. Donna should definitely be able hear her from the kitchen. No response. “Donna?” She sighed and stumbled on towards the bathroom.
*
Elise lay in bed, phone in hand. It was Sunday night. She had asked Donna if they could hang out that night, and Donna had said no. She had asked Patrick and Ruby and Noria and Sadie. They were all busy. Probably spending time with someone else. Maybe they were in love. Maybe they were going to some party she wasn’t invited to. Well, she thought, at least I have all of these wonderful friends. Some people don’t have any. She imagined the thought was forced, but maybe that observation was forced. She wasn’t even sure if her smile was forced or natural.
She began to reminisce over the events of the past week. She had felt a kind of turning energy, like something was going to change. Something huge. It scared her, but more than that, she wanted it. She wasn’t content writing emails in a big, grey building. It was so boring.
She thought she might fantasize, but a wave of tiredness overcame her and she sighed, blinking slowly. She placed her teacup back on the nightstand and closed her eyes, sleep washing over her. In her dreams, a red insect crawled up the wall, heading nowhere.
*
She woke up to a ring of the doorbell. It was still dark out, and certainly didn’t feel like morning. People rarely came to her door; never at this hour. Maybe there was some sort of emergency. Still, it wouldn’t be safe to answer. She stood up wearily, turned on her bedside lamp, walked to the entryway, and called out.
“Who is it?” Her words echoed into nothingness.
To that, the doorknob turned and the still-locked door opened. A flood of darkness seeped into the house. It was Patrick, in his grey suit and thick glasses. He was not looking at her. He beckoned for her to exit the house, to enter the cold, windy night. “Patrick,” she started. “What are you doing here, now?” She had an urge to pick up the umbrella and attack him with it, but if he really had sour intentions, it would be no use.
Again, he beckoned. She stood there in confusion. “Patrick, if you’re playing some sort of joke, stop it. Right now.” He wouldn’t play a joke like this. She sighed, which seemed quite an odd thing to do in this situation. She would be more afraid if any of this made sense.
Almost in response to her thought, Patrick grabbed her arm. Her fear ignited. He was dragging her out of the doorway and down the pavement, down the sidewalk. It was all dark, all the sights and sounds mixed and faded. Please be safe, she thought. Please be safe. Her legs bled dully as the rough cement scraped them. She began to slow down, and then Patrick pushed her into another doorway.
Her feet planted. She was standing, shaking at the end of a large, dome-shaped room. The first thing she noticed was that the walls were made of metal. The second was that there were small, red, oozy bugs scattered all over the walls. A thinly dispersed crowd, she thought. A ring-shaped tingling circumvolved her head. It felt unnatural in a very natural way. It took her too long to realize that not only Patrick, but Donna, Ruby, Noria, and Sadie were all there. That calmed her down for a second. So this is what they’re all doing. But what is this? She had a feeling she shouldn’t be calm.
“We hold too much fear for strangers,” Patrick began. There was a whirring in the background. Donna and Sadie hustled up to Elise and picked her up by her hip and shoulder. They took her to the center of the room, where electrifying blue light seeped out of a hole. They held her over it, her thoughts procreating until they were too fast to distinguish. “Yet we do not fear our friends enough,” Patrick continued. Her captors rocked nervously, but there was no mercy in their eyes. They were not themselves, Elise thought, but she knew that was wrong. This was them.
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Donna and Sadie let go of her. The blue light was gripping her, begging for her to join it, to lose her connection to this world, to become part of another. It was taking over. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her friends one last time.
They were different.
Taj Lalwani is a high school student in West LA who likes music, running, and relaxed conversations. He writes a lot of journal entries and sometimes writes songs, poetry, and fiction. He hopes you have a good life but it’ll take him a while to figure out how to make that actually happen.