Til Death Do Us Part || Tate Langdon

nest

DECEMBER 2023

      "Tate!" you shrieked, every part of you shaken and horrified. You stumbled over and collapsed next to his motionless body, still wailing in despair. Blood pooled around him. Everything moved in slow motion. Your stomach turned and bile rose in your throat as your vision began tunneling. You could already barely see through all your tears; they poured from your eyes and drenched your face.

      "Wha- why, no no no," you propped his head up on your lap and applied pressure to bullet wound in his chest. His blood flowed through and stained your fingers, his open wound making awful squishing noises beneath your hands. "Please Tate," you continued sobbing. "We have to take you somewhere, please, get up!"

      But you knew it was too late. The gunshot was fatal, he'd pulled the trigger without a second thought and crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Right in front of your face.

      "I just got you back, please Tate," you wept, cradling his upper body the best you could as you rocked helplessly back and forth. A short but seemingly immeasurable amount of time later, a small wheeze from the departed boy in your lap silenced you. You sat up and pulled away from him quickly, and what you saw was beyond comprehension. Your chest caved and you froze.

      Tate, bullet wound and all, sat fully upright, and looked at you with the most innocent, care-free smile on his still blood-splattered face.

2011, first grade

      Your school was a strange one: it was a private school, and held grades k-12. Of the two stories, the small kindergarten classroom and 6th-8th grade middle school classroom were on the second floor, and the 1st-5th grade elementary classroom and 9th-12th grade high school classroom were on the first. There were only about 100 kids in the entire school at one time, so everybody had at least heard of each other.

      On your first day of first grade, your Aunt Thea walked you to the bus stop, snapped a few pictures to send to your parents, and you went excitedly into the bus without a second glance. Your parents split before you were even born; your father chasing alcohol and women, your mother chasing heroine and men. They both claimed to care about you but had little proof to back it up. At this point, Aunt Thea was still fun and kind.

      You met Tate that day, as you had finally moved up to the same elementary classroom as him: he was shy during class, didn't look up much and never spoke. He always looked like he'd just gotten scolded for something. Your considerate teacher took pity and went easy on him, never calling on him to speak or get up in front of the class. The other kids in class were not as kind.

   "Why does he wear the same thing so many days in a row?" One girl said to her friend at lunch. You sat with them only because this was the unofficial girl's table.

   "I don't know," her pig-tailed friend replied, mouthful of GoGurt. "Why's his lunch always such weird stuff?"

   "Cause he's weird," the original girl said, and they giggled together. 

      You looked over at him curiously, he had a patchwork sweater that did look pretty worn, and blonde hair with seemingly natural brown streaks throughout that looked like it'd gone a little too long without a cut. You remembered from a TV show that talking bad about him like this would be bullying, and you wanted no parts of it.

      When it was time for recess, kids that had been in this class in previous years separated into their cliques, and other 1st graders soon formed their own. You had an offer to join a few girls, but denied them. You decided to introduce yourself to Tate instead, who sat alone under the slide poking sadly at the mulch. You looked around before speaking, other boys you guys' age pointed in his direction and did a pathetic imitation of him.

   "I like your shirt," you told him, swaying your shoulders backward and forward with your hands clasped behind your back. He looked up at you, intrigued, but didn't respond. "Didn't you hear me?"

   "I heard you."

   "Oh," you said, slightly surprised he could speak. "Well aren't you gonna say thank you?"

   "No. Other girls have done this before you," he said coldly and looked away. "I'm not falling for it again. Just leave me alone."

   You defied his wishes and sat next to him and he looked at you like you'd just spat on him. "I just want to be friends with you. Those other kids are mean," you shrugged, hugging your knees. "My name is Y/N."

   He looked back to me, "Yeah? They're mean to you too?"

   "Not me, but, they're just mean."

   "Yeah. They are," he nodded thoughtfully, and there was a moment of silence between you two before he spoke again, "I'm Tate."

   You smiled, satisfied with your progress, and started pushing the mulch around to form an oval shape.

   "What are you doing?" the boy almost smiled.

   "Making a nest," you replied, building up the edges to create a large version of an on-the-ground bird nest. "Will you help? It can be both of ours."

   He looked to your face for any hint of teasing, but found none, and got to work helping you create the mulch nest. When you two were almost done, you felt confident to ask him a few questions.

   "Why does everybody laugh at you? You're not even weird."

   He didn't look annoyed, only sad, and a little embarrassed before answering, "Because I don't act like them. And I'm too old for my grade, they think I'm stupid." He threw a misshapen piece of wooden mulch. "S'not my fault my parents waited 'til I was six to put me in kindergarten."

   "How old are you?" you wondered out loud.

   "Eight."

   "Oh, I'm six," you said proudly, and he nodded and kept building, adding the finishing touches to your shared creation. "There!" you patted around the edge one last time, and beamed joyously at Tate. "This is our nest now, we can sit in it every day."

   For the first time, he genuinely smiled.