Newborn

(Do you ever find yourself writing more than one version of the same story? This is a flash fiction idea i first played with some time ago. The more recent version is the first one... I had the idea to make the main character younger, around 18 or 19. In the original version, he was in his 30s. Pls tell me which one you prefer...Carine)

NEWBORN (the new version)

He had been out of it...

Everyone knew he still blamed himself for the accident. They told him not to. He began avoiding them. His guilt was the only companion he sought out. He cut classes and hung around her grave for days on end. Some of his friends swore they'd seen him sleep there. Others said no. He could not sleep anymore.

Chris, his best friend found him there, in a sour, crumpled T-shirt with a two-day growth of beard. "Look, Wes," he said awkwardly. "We all miss Jen. She used to be the life and soul of the party. But it's time to move on, get on with your life. She would want you to move on."

Wes stared ahead of him. "How do you know that? Speak to her lately?"

Chris faltered. "You know what I mean."

"If she can't come back, I'm going to be with her."

Chris licked his lips. "You can't mean that, buddy. She would want you to go on."

Wes laughed. A sound that echoed a complete absence of joy or mirth. "Of course I mean it. What do you think? I've found someone. He's going to help me... to be with her forever."

That was two weeks ago.

They, his former friends, were surprised to see him turn up at Marcy's 18th birthday party. He had been giving all social gatherings of more than one person a miss. One of the girls commented that he looked rather cool in those new shades. A bit on the pale side, but that's to be expected, given his most recent activities. Some wondered aloud whether he was on drugs, but several arranged themselves in near proximity to his movements.

Chris sidled towards him with a beer in one hand. "So how have you been doing?" he asked.

"Well," Wes replied bitterly. "Can't be better."

"Yes?" asked Chris. He felt he was having a conversation with the Raybans rather than the person.

"Actually, I only came to say goodbye. I'll be leaving soon."

"Change of scenery," said Chris. "Good. So that... that guy you told me about last

time... you didn't go through with it, did you?"

"Ah, but I did," Wes replied. Briefly he parted lips as dry as parchment to flick his pale tongue over a predator's newborn fangs.

He left with a geeky 10th grader, the sister of someone. No one ever saw her again.

NEWBORN (the old version)

They - the noise-ridden, the gaudily clad, the casually adulterous, the recently overfed, the intoxicated, the unbereaved - had all but given up hope that they would still see him within the lifetime of their party. He surprised them. Not a particularly nice surprise. He came long after dark and dressed all in black like Death's own bridegroom, but his good friends, used to the morbid shadow he had become since Chloe and Jen died, ignored all that. Similarly, they overlooked the hair, too long to be stylish, too short to be eccentric, the two-day beard and the Raybans he neglected to take off.

At his approach, they swallowed their smiles and laughter to exchange those solemn greetings the occasion of his presence seemed to demand.

They all noticed (but none commented on it) that his pallor tonight was more ghastly than it had ever been in the last nine months. Was he starving himself? Sick? Drunk? On drugs? Each had his or her own set of unspoken guesses.

He refused all food and wine, politely, but firmly.

The woman he paused by, an attractive, but slightly overweight divorcee , flushed as he spoke and gave one shrill, inappropriate snort of a laugh. A case of nerves verbalizing unease. Or something stronger, perhaps. He said more to her. Her expression froze. Then she nodded. When he moved on, she excused herself - her gratingly squeaky voice was not heard again that evening and several weeks passed before anyone began to noticed that she was no longer returning any calls.

His best friend, the bachelor entrepreneur, the considerate ladies' man, was at his side then. If it was possible to be both reluctant and eager, then Jack Weston was that. He was also the most concerned of all. A secret question sat impatiently on the tip of his tongue, but he did not ask it right away. Instead, he started with the words no one else dared ask. "So, how are you doing?"

"Well," his friend replied bitterly. "Can't be better."

"Yes?" asked Jack. He felt he was having a conversation with the Raybans rather than the man.

"Actually, I only came to say goodbye. I'll be leaving soon."

"Change of scenery," said Jack. "Good. So that... that creature you told me about last time, remember, when you passed out on Sparky's gray blanket afterwards... he didn't turn up for that... so-called arrangement of yours, did he?"

"Ah, but he did," his friend replied, briefly parting those parchment lips to flick his pale tongue over a predator's newborn fangs.