ALL THE LOVELY BAD ONES | CARL GRIMES

twenty two. august, honey, you were mine

The weight of nostalgia hit me like a freight train, aching for the presence of my parents. The way I missed them so completely, so wholeheartedly, it felt like I could tear my hair out in frustration over it. Sometimes, the only peace was in solitude, retreating to the woods, reminiscent of the months spent alone after the fall of the prison.

I had found a section of the fence that was climbable and out of view from the look out post. I had only went over a couple of times, always making it back in time for class. No one even noticed I was gone.

Except Carl, of course.

Because he came over every single day.

Which people did notice.

It wasn't like it was strange for us to spend time together, what else would we do all day? But it was the way he went about it. Sun up to sun down, we were together.

I mean, I didn't exactly prefer spending all my time alone. I had grown so used to Carl's consistent presence that when he wasn't around it felt odd, like being in a dark room and searching for the light switch but your hand just keeps meeting empty wall. But then he appears, the light comes on. And it's like Oh. Why do I even turn the light off in the first place? But at the end of the day we had to go to our own houses, our own rooms, like the two separate people we're supposed to me. It's hard to remember that sometimes.

At first, the only alone time I had was church. Sitting in the stiff wood of the carved pews, shafts of light filtering through the stained glass, listening to Father Gabriel's sermons, which were oddly soothing and reminiscent of the life I had lived before. But then a rainy Sunday rolled around and as I was hiking up the hem of my skirt and preparing to brave the weather, Carl appeared in the doorway with an umbrella.

"Do you mind if I walk you there?" He asked and I told him I didn't so we went. Then I expected him to go home once we made it to the front steps of the church but then he followed me in. "So I can walk you back after." He explained in a hushed tone, as though not to disturb the hallowed sanctuary. The crucifix above the pulpit seemed to catch his interest.

Perhaps, I dared to muse, Carl might glean something meaningful from this experience. Yet, as we sat and the teaching began, I let my gaze linger upon him, and couldn't help but notice a subtle shift in his demeanor that betrayed a different narrative.

Seated with a casual nonchalance, his posture slackened in a manner suggestive of disinterest. His gaze, once fixed upon the sacred space above, now wandered aimlessly, tracing invisible patterns across the expanse of the ceiling, his fingers tapping on his jeans rhythmically. Then, with a clandestine whisper that pierced the sanctity of the moment, he divulged a seemingly trivial revelation: "There are four-thousand and eighty-six ceiling tiles."

"Four-thousand and eighty-six?"

"Yep. Did the math myself, in my head. Eighty-six tiles long by fifty-two across."

I could have berated him for not paying attention, but he seemed pleased with himself, and math was hard, so I let him have his small victory. I turned my eyes back to the pulpit and tried to ignore Carl as he began what seemed to be counting the panels in the windows.

After that, Carl appeared at the doorstep every Sunday morning to walk me to and from church, no matter the weather. He'd sit beside me during the service and do anything but pay attention.

I came to the realization that amidst the ebb and flow of our intertwined lives, there existed no sacred interlude of what my mother would call 'alone time'. Every moment seemed entwined with Carl's presence, an inseparable tether binding us together. The only fleeting respite from our constant companionship occurred when Carl would bring Judith to the Millers', an elderly couple residing in our neighborhood.