September 11, 2017 | Occasus | Issue 7 | Fiction
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To this day, I hate the sound of sirens.
The February air had a familiar crisp to it, the inside of her nose froze as her face turned red. Her lips circumvented a tender smile as the snow made a distinct crunch, an impression, a mark underneath her boots as she walked. This was her favourite time of year; from the ice on the trees to the sun glistening on the untouched snow, it was a nostalgic feeling. She found snowflakes peculiar. The intricate design of a snowflake could be crafted so beautifully within little piles scattered along the unploughed street of her quaint, handsome, red-brick downtown home.
He had slept through his alarms. He could never seem to get up in the morning, or in the afternoon for that matter. Peeling away the white sheets littered with coffee and wine-stains, he managed to get out of the nest of blankets and pillows he had made. The room was especially cold that afternoon; frost clouded the window, creating a kaleidoscope of imprinted flakes of snow. He hated it. He hated the cold, the frost, the frigid air. It was 4:36pm. He knew that she would be back at their run-down, crumbling Hamilton apartment in just a few minutes. At 4:40pm she made her way into the elevator. She enjoyed the ‘70s paisley wallpaper decorating the inside of the little metal box as it moved to the fifth floor, creaking the whole way up until the doors opened. Stepping from the elevator, she moved through the narrow corridor. Deep blue walls and dark wooden doors on either end of the hall. The atmosphere always made her feel like she was in the ocean. She adored the idea of being somewhere vaster than her curious mind could explore. She made her way down with confidence and confronted her front door. The stain was chipping away and her room number on the bronze plaque was fading with age. She reached for the dented door handle, forcing her key into the keyhole, she began the unlocking sequence: jimmy, jimmy, shake, twist, jimmy, shake, jimmy, jimmy, push. I was never good at opening doors.
4:44pm. She was early. “Are you ready!?” She yelled into the room as she stumbled in, avoiding the bits of broken plates and glass strewn across the floor. He didn’t reply. He heard her, and he was ready, but the guilt prevented him from replying right away. He looked around the room to the dents in the walls, the watermark on the ceiling, the drapes that hung with broken promises. The bed made a creaking sound as he got up.
“Just about,” he called back with a forced cheeriness, fiddling with a small envelope with her name inscribed in pen. “I’m just going to use the washroom,” quickly shoving the envelope under a pillow, he started toward the bathroom ensuite. She was ecstatic to finally be going out again. This was the first time in months that he didn’t greet her with hostility. Last week she made him promise that they would go out for dinner, somewhere quiet, somewhere they could talk. He had been perturbed around her, and she was unsure as to why. She contemplated this in her head for weeks on end, but tonight was looking promising. Tonight, everything would make sense. Pacing back and forth in the front hall, she glided along the carpet into their bedroom. Standing in the doorframe, she noticed the corner of paper peeking out from its hiding spot. She lifted the pillow, and noticed the envelope beside a small box. She picked them up, and ripped the seal of the envelope, “Run away with me. Marry me? Signed, Yours Truly.” Her smile sank when she flipped over the envelope, realizing that the name at the front was not hers. The toilet flushed and the faucet ran. She shoved the envelope and the small box into her coat pocket then rushed out of the room back to the front door. She checked herself in the mirror, putting on a strained smile. He made his way out of the bathroom, immediately noticing the overturned pillow. “Fuck,” he spat, his heart beating faster. I wasn’t supposed to find it. I wasn’t supposed to find it at all.
As she looked at her reflection, he walked past her and out of the front door. “Coming?” he asked rigidly. She turned and walked out of the room, slamming the wooden door behind her.
They made their way down the corridor in silence. He despised how narrow it was; it made him feel as if he were drowning in an ocean of solid blue. Her hand stretched for his, and he held it loosely. The two waited for the elevator, not exchanging a single word. Her heart was quickening as the elevator doors opened, her grip growing tighter. The elevator reminded him of that pale green colour that some people become when they get ill. It made him sick. They got off the elevator and made their way through the lobby and into the parking lot. It was windier, frostier, harsher now. They trudged through the poorly ploughed, poorly shoveled, poorly salted car park to her brown nineties-era Saturn coupe.. Her handle was cold to the touch. Salt stains and fingerprints littered the glass, with streaks of melted snow cascading down its length. “Getting in?” he asked me harshly, his voice cracking echoing through the beat-up car.
She forced the door open and propped herself inside. She wrapped her seatbelt around her body, and started the car. His eyebrows narrowed inward, scrunching at the bridge of his nose. Despite this, there was a sort of gentleness in the way his eyes fell. The car shot out of the parking lot, her face was hot, heart beating harder. Her mind wavering back and forth between the letter and the box, and whether or not she should say something, she tore through the snow-covered streets, weaved in and out of lanes, moving so suddenly that it made his heart jump. She felt paralyzed, like someone was holding her down, like her seatbelt was growing tighter and tighter the closer they approached the on-ramp to the 403. She turned on the radio to try to calm herself down and soon enough they were losing themselves in the cadence of ambient light percussion. “Who is she?” Her voice piercing through the curtain of dusk. “What are you talking about?” “You know exactly what I’m talking about” she flared, tearing out the envelope from her coat pocket. “Just fucking tell me!” He looked at her for a moment, watching a tear form in the corner of her eye. Shame rushed through his body, making every hair on his body stand upright and his face burn. “What do you want me to tell you?” he shouted, facing her. “That I’m trying to do what’s best for me, what’s best for you, for us? Do you want me to apologize? I don’t know what you want me to say.” I could feel rage surge through my lungs, up my throat, off my lips.
“What the hell are you talking about?” She yelled back. “This doesn’t even make any sense, you’re screwing someone else, why!?” The music throbbed louder, steadily synchronizing with the beat in her chest. “I am,” he confessed. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you,” The car pressed along faster, flecks of snow kissing the windshield as they flew by. “Why couldn’t you have said it to my face? Your fucking letter!” Tears cascaded down her cheek. Her hands clasped the steering wheel, her elbows fixed parallel to each other. “Your fucking letter.” The golden shimmer of the setting sun reflected in the melted snow on the windows of the car created a warming atmosphere. Up ahead there was a turn approaching. He knew damn well what she was doing. The crunch of steel, the twinkling of glass dancing on the asphalt.
In three seconds, the road had circumvented a steel guardrail, followed by four seconds of anxious cursing, anxious begging, anxious something. Followed by six seconds of promising myself if I survived I would start listening, resist neglecting my promises, stop pushing off effort in exchange for more time. Followed by two seconds, the longest two seconds, of lying to myself, lying to my faith, and lying to him. The words “I love you” hung shattered, hung damaged, hung broken in the air. “I’m sorry” felt so inaccurate, so trite, so distant. Seven seconds of haze, of blur, of disarray. I managed to thank God that I was still alive. That’s when I discovered the fate of my passenger. 5:42pm, his neck perpendicular to his body, his face painted red. Drops of blood glistened in the kaleidoscope-like windshield under the glimmer of the freeway lamp post. My heart pulsed, throbbed, pounded, louder yet gentle. I glided my hand over his, feeling every hair, every mole, every muscle in his cold, limp arm.
Three seconds later, closure.
Voices penetrated the still warm air of the wreckage. Their words were crisp, yet I couldn’t understand. I felt paralyzed. I would have given anything to switch places with him. I remember thinking of how I could use my seatbelt as a noose. I remember the sirens. I remember how they told me to let him go. I remember how they told me I was going to be okay. I remember because this is the last conversation we ever had.
To this day, I hate the sound of sirens.
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JAMES GAGNON is a writer, and the co-editor for the online mental health publication, Western Mind, to which he contributes a considerable amount. He is a first year student enrolled in the Arts & Humanities faculty hoping to do an Honor's Specialization in Creative Writing and English Language and Literature.