Nonconformity | Henry Creel

Missed Call

My gaze traveled to my bed. The thought of raising myself from the floor and walking over to the mattress felt like a cruel joke. One where I was the unwilling punchline. That familiar feeling of helplessness seeped in, and suddenly I had the desire to be 'sick' again. To rot in my bed, staring at everything and nothing for days on end. I had hoped those chains were broken, shattered, nothing but ash in the pit of my stomach. Clearly, I was wrong.

"No, no, no," I whispered.

I pulled myself up from the ground, wiped the tears from my eyes, and cast aside the gnawing ache of hopelessness. Not again. I'd been through this once before and I'd be damned if I rolled over and let it happen again. I refused to let all that effort go to waste in the name of an old man like Papa-- who was he to govern my mind?

Distractions. Gloria always encouraged distractions when I fell into states like this. The hurt was too raw, and there was always tomorrow. My newest wound might have time to scab over by then, so that I may re-assess the situation with dry eyes and a lighter heart.

My gaze fell to the cardboard box marked '001,' brown corners peaking out from beneath my bed. I swiped a hand beneath my nose, sniffled one final time, and crawled over. The contents of the box clattered together as I placed it on top of my bed and threw off my slippers, joining it shortly after.

I stretched my aching limbs in an attempt to breathe some life back into my body. Reluctantly, my muscles obliged. The smallest smile lit up my face, though I couldn't deny how artificial it felt.

I didn't dwell on it for long as I peeled off the lid, placing it neatly beside me. The spines of the tapes were difficult to see in the dim lighting, but if I squinted hard enough, I could make out a few of the names. I pulled Six's blue and grey walkman out from underneath my pillow, fingers brushing against a few old benzos. I really did have to get rid of those.

The lump in my throat was forcibly swallowed back as I ran my fingers over the tapes. Instantaneously, as my flesh collided with the third tape to the left, a frigid ache crept down my neck.

"Weird," I muttered as I picked the tape out of the box and set it down beside me. 'Dream a Little Dream of Me' by Ella Fitzgerald was scrawled across the spine. Oddly enough, the front part of the tape almost looked destroyed. The once-- presumably-- transparent plastic case was scratched up, just like the '001' on that door. Nail marks in rows of three marred the surface, along with a few dents here and there. Damn, One must've really hated this song.

Taking Six's walkman in my hands, I played with it for a few moments before figuring out how it was supposed to work. A click sounded, and the front piece popped out, revealing a hallow section meant for the tape. Unceremoniously, I put the tape in its designated spot and brought the headphones over my head.

There was brief silence, and then some static. I frowned. The tape was in bad shape, certainly, but it was the inside that mattered, right? Not the plastic part on the front. Shouldn't it be playing? I cursed myself for my lack on knowledge on the topic.

With no better ideas, I hit the side of the walkman with my palm a few times. A single note cut through the headphones, and so I took that as a good sign and hit it some more. After a little while, the audio become more consistent, though it did cut here and there. I replayed the song from the beginning and closed my eyes.

A soft sigh fell from my lips as I focused on the first few notes. At the same time, I called upon my abilities, feeling that familiar warmth creep through my veins. Some sort of trumpet, I believe, announced the beginning of the song. It played for a little while before I opened my eyes and found myself in a new place.

I stood in an empty house, now. Muted creme wallpaper with rose-shaped accents ran halfway down the wall, meeting dark wood before it came to stop. There was a staircase to my right, composed of the same wood as the base boards. This was probably the foyer, with its high ceilings and sweeping, oak-colored floors. I stood facing a door, which was pretty bland aside from a stained-glass window comprised of vivid reds, oranges, and yellows in the shape of a rose.