To Live Forever || p.maximoff

Darganfod (Discovered)

With the final days of summer fast approaching, the sweltering heat cowered to autumn winds. The leaves were just starting to change, the trees becoming a canopy of reds and oranges and yellows over the sidewalks. Cloudless days and starry nights. Sometimes Enid would sneak out her bedroom window and make the hazardous journey to the roof, laying flat on her back and staring up at the twinkling lights in the sky. How many of those stars still existed? Enid supposed most of them were ghosts, pouring the last of their souls into the eyes of those who cared enough to look up, desperate to be seen by someone so their light would be remembered by someone, anyone, before it fizzled out.

That was her special place. Up there, the only thing between her and the stars a billion miles of suffocating dark. It was one of the only places, other than Peter's basement, where she felt at ease. Sometimes she fell asleep on the roof, waking up to the feeling of terra-cotta tiles against her skin and a terrible ache in her back. It was one of these mornings that Enid woke up to her mother banging hard on the bedroom window. Mama's ghostly pale face craned low as she shivered in her shawl. Poor Enid nearly fell off the roof from shock.

"What are you doing out there?! You're going to catch cold," Mama said, beckoning her child inside where it was warm. Enid groaned, but did what she was told. Because her mutation kept her body internally heated, it was extremely hard for her to get cold. Despite knowing this, Mama always hyper-focused on her youngest daughter's condition. "I make you soup, okay?"

"You don't have to--" Her voice was lost as the older woman bolted out the door, presumably to make a giant vat of her infamous chicken soup. That was the family cure-all, and it never failed. Injured? Sick? Sad? Hungry? Mama's soup remedied all those and more, making even the worst days bearable. Within minutes, cries of abused pots and pans rose up the stairs, followed by incoherent mumbling. Enid collapsed on her bed, listening to her mother's symphony as she tried to shake off the remnants of last night's hellscape of a dream. 

The scenarios were always different, but the place was the same. Metal tables, harsh lights, the sharp burn of rubbing alcohol. Being visited by those terrible memories both scared and angered her. Schmidt was long-dead. The news broke just as Mama, Katerina, and Enid settled into their room at the motel. Having arrived in some harbor off the Long Island Sound with little money and no identification, they needed someplace quiet to lay low. The room had a single bed that was just big enough for one and whose rusty springs creaked whenever it was used; one had to roll over the bed to reach the tiny writing desk against the wall under a window that looked out on concrete and speeding cars. But what fascinated the younger girls was the square TV that sat in one corner. They'd never had a TV before and were immediately entranced by its large, buzzing screen and all the buttons they could push. It wasn't long before they had pushed every single one, sending the device into a tizzy of grey static. Mama stepped in soon afterward, pushing the girls away from the screen and taking a whack at it herself. When the news station came on, all three of them sat huddled in silence before the broadcast. When Schmidt's picture flashed on the screen, Enid cried. Even now, sitting on her bed, she could remember the relief, the hope, the satisfaction. It wasn't fair that her abuser followed her even in death, stealing her sleep, pushing her to the brink of insanity, and slowly withering her away until nothing remained. Schmidt's experiments were the reason she was sick.

Rolling over on her side, Enid stared out the window as blackbirds flitted between the oak trees, singing to each other a song so beautiful and sad. She wondered if reincarnation was real. If it was, she wanted to come back as a bird--breaking away from the tedious human problems in favor of singing the world awake every morning. Her songs would be so beautiful and sad the sun would cry. 

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.

Enid opened her window then, leaning out to yell at the door's assailant. "Stop assaulting my door, Peter," she shouted. Sure enough, there he was, standing on her lawn, blowing her a huge raspberry. "Wow, you come all the way over here to do that? Why don't you go bother one of your sisters?"

"Because I wanted to bother you," he said pointedly. He was decked out in his worn jacket, a RUSH t-shirt, and a pair of silver aviator goggles. Peter pouted like a child on verge of a tantrum. "Come down? Please?"

"I'm pretty sure my mom's got me on lock-down today, Pete," she replied, rubbing the back of her neck. Staring down at her best friend standing on the lawn, his hands interlocked behind him, staring up at her expectantly, one leg bouncing restlessly--she remembered the recently created mix-tape sitting on her bedside dresser. "Actually, wait there for a minute! I've got something for ya." She disappeared from the windowsill for a moment, then returned with the small tape in her hands. Reeling back one of her hands, she shouted, "Catch!"

Peter, being inhumanly fast, easily caught the tape before it hit the ground. Flipping it over in his hands, he read the words scribbled on the side with blue marker. 'Slow Poke Mixes--for Quicksilver'. Laughing, he said, "What's this?"

"Ah, just something I've been working on," Enid replied. "Just some of my favorites. I know they're probably a bit slow to you, hence the name. But they're good. At least to me. So...yeah." Mama's voice echoed up from downstairs, beckoning her downstairs for breakfast. Enid looked over her shoulder, "Looks like mom wants me."

An amused smile graced Peter's face. "No worries," he said. "Just know that I've got high expectations for this..." he waved the tape back and forth in one hand. "Don't let me down, slow poke." Before Enid could make a retort, Peter disappeared in a blur of blue-grey. The girl stared at the fresh dirt patch on her lawn where the boy had sped off, her face burning with the knowledge that her mix was a mess of love songs carefully compiled over years of ice cream cones and ping pong matches. Noticing how hot her face was, and how she'd been staring at the lawn for a good five minutes, Enid frantically shut the window and ran downstairs for breakfast.

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The tape sat on Peter's dresser. He'd been busy beating his old Pac-Man score and restocking--stealing--his dwindling supply of Hostess products. Now, in the middle of the afternoon, with little to do now that he'd beaten every game in his basement and was sick of watching TV, Peter finally acknowledged the elephant in the room. He liked the title, especially the 'Quicksilver' bit. He'd never been one for nicknames, but now that the gauntlet was thrown, he felt obligated to return the favor. With potential names rolling around in his head, Peter plugged the tape into his Walkman and slipped the headphones on. 

There was a five second lag before anything started to play. And when sounds finally started coming through his headphones, he didn't recognize it as music at first. Ticking clocks, then sudden blaring alarm clocks ringing all around him, surrounding him in a cacophony of dissonance, each sound challenging its neighbor for dominance until the noise-vomit faded under a thick, resonating bass line. It felt...familiar. Once the voices piped up, he immediately realized he was listening to a track from Pink Floyd's newest album, Dark Side of the Moon. Damn, Enid had him pegged. 

The next piece was unfamiliar. Minor key, guitar-heavy, sharp on the ears. Someone started singing in a language he didn't understand---Spanish, maybe? But the music spoke for itself--mournful, cynical; plus, it had an epic chorus that he couldn't help humming along to. His ego always refused to let him accept that his best friend had good music taste, and yet...she never ceased to surprise him. When the song was over, he didn't have time to miss the steady rhythm and sultry vocals.

The mood instantly shifted. A song he knew parts of, one he overheard Enid humming to herself between ping pong matches. Even better than the last. How had he never heard these before? Within the first four bars of electric guitar, he was hooked. Then the gruff voice of Peter William Ham soared above everything else, singing words that spoke directly to the silver-haired boy, straight from the girl next-door.

Peter didn't think much of it at first, pushing away stray thoughts in favor of the fun verses. Enid was his best friend, this was a friendship song. It's sweet. No need to get your hopes up. When the next song started, all that went out the window. Peter was all too familiar with the song. It was one of his favorites, Croce's 'Time in a Bottle'. Another sweet song from a sweet friend. Actually, this one actually was from Enid. She'd recorded over the original vocals with her own tinny, songbird voice. Whatever she'd used didn't offer the best audio, but hearing her voice made Peter light up regardless. Especially knowing this song made her think of him. He fell asleep listening to her voice, his dreams laced with the words:

'I've looked around enough to know,

that you're the one I want to go through time with.'