Skye and Jason left later that night, leaving me with a lipstick smudged t-shirt, an overdue paperback copy of The Antichrist, and rose scented blankets, which I did not bother to make, but instead rolled myself up in them, just like Skye did, and fell asleep in the scent of her.
Suddenly, I was woken up in the middle of the night by my phone ringing on my bedside. I was so drowsy that my eyes refused to stay open for more than two seconds, but overcome with irritation about who could possibly be calling me, I scraped around for my phone and lazily tapped the screen. The first thing I saw was my friend Tyler's goofy (and in the moment, insufferable) profile picture. It was 1:00 o'clock in the morning. Bless me.
I tapped the accept button.
"...Hello? ...Tyler?" I murmured.
"Siiiiiiiilas!" His voice blasted into my ear. "The Silaster, the man of the hour!" He was definitely drunk. I could practically hear the cheap fraternity beer emanating from the phone speaker.
"Dude, please tell me you called for a good reason." I was already so over it.
"A good reason?! Oh. My. God. Silas! I called you for the best reason there literally ever was and ever will be!"
"Yeah, and what would that be?"
"So, I'm at this house party with Pho – Pho, come here, yeah, over here - say hi to Silas!" I heard a jumble of excited drunk yelling from who I believed to be my friend Pho. I couldn't say for sure because he didn't articulate any actual, you know, words.
"So, yeah, we're at this house party with the football team, and we were playing spin the bottle, right?"
Of course they were.
"And it landed on me, right?" I could hear the excitement raise in his voice.
"Uh-huh?"
"Just take a guess who else it landed on."
Oh no, 1:00 AM guessing games. My favorite.
"I'll give you a hint – she's in one of our classes." Tyler added.
I started to list them off.
"Calculus?"
"Cold..."
"History?"
"Cold."
"...biology?"
"Warmer, Si!"
"...goth?"
"Hot, boiling hot!"
I rolled my eyes. "Fishnets?"
"Burning hot, excruciatingly hot, Mount Vesuvius plaster casting people alive-hot! You're right
on the money dude!"
I rolled onto my side with a disappointed, tired, but mostly disappointed, sigh.
"Is that it?"
"Bro, we literally made out on the sofa. She wears grape flavored lipstick, so kissing her feels like you're drinking some sort of boujee wine. Except you're not, and instead you're making out with this really hot goth chick, which is so much better. Oh! Did I mention she doesn't wear a bra? I know because I put my hand on her-"
"Ty, you get like this with every girl you meet." I tried to explain to him. "You fall in love because they give you the slightest bit of attention. It's honestly starting to get repetitive."
"But she's different, dude! I know she's the one. She has to be my soul mate."
"All because you squeezed her-"
"Oh, and her name is Jasmine! Isn't that beautiful? Jasmine, the sound of the sea splashing onto the beach at sunset. Jasmine, the buzzing of a bee in spring."
"Jasmine, the sound of your heart getting broken in three days because you can't maintain a relationship. I get it, dude."
"Look man, you're just jealous because I scored an absolute baddie. You should be happy for me."
"Your propensity for fishnets," I began, "Is making me want to hang myself."
"What's propensity mean?" He asked.
I ended the call and set my phone on silent mode, flopping back down again onto my rose scented bed sheets. I was so over it all. I tried my best to fall asleep a second time, although my luck wasn't too hot. I started dozing off again around two in the morning and woke up around seven, supremely sleep deprived and not feeling rested whatsoever.
I sat myself up lazily and peered into my mirror again, basking in my own pitiful grogginess. Suddenly, the eye cream my mom mentioned didn't sound like such a bad idea. My parents were still sleeping, so I treaded carefully out of my room, careful not to creak the floorboards.
Settling down to the first floor, I trudged over to the kitchen, where early morning light streamed into the room through wooden blinders, casting rainbow shadows along the cabinets. I opened a tall cupboard to search for coffee grounds, praying to the almighty caffeine gods that there would still be a few tablespoons left, and that I wouldn't have to wake my parents to the sound of a coffee grinder at seven in the morning.
Bingo. There was a pitiful - but sufficient – mound of ground coffee beans left in a silver container. Thank you, coffee lord above.
I went on to make myself a cup of strong black coffee, as it was my understanding that anything other than strong black coffee was either for basic-white-pumpkin-spice girls, or people who were smart enough to understand that black coffee probably isn't the healthiest thing for your system. But I didn't really care – cappuccinos hadn't worked their magic on me in years.
After taking a few sips, I poured the rest of the coffee into an insulated thermos and put on my backpack, which had been resting on the kitchen table. I wanted to take a trip to the library – not to return Jason's year long overdue library book, because I was definitely going to continue that tradition – but to try and see if I could find any information at all about the Children of Reconstructed Consciousness. The internet is only so helpful, and it would be nice if I could find some thick research book done by a grumpy and retired Harvard Professor about the exact subject that I was looking for, which I have approximately two times in the past. Two isn't a lot, of course, but it's weird that it happened twice.
I walked out the door into a bright, sunny autumn day. I wasn't impressed. I loved the rain, and dark clouds, and that weird, comforting feeling that they gave you when they were combined. Sunlight was so overrated, although to be completely honest, that might have been the reason for my vampire skin.
Sprawling American suburbs aren't known for their walkability; however, the library was just down the street from my house, the first stop once you exited the neighborhood, with a continuous sidewalk running to and from. As I walked into the library, I was greeted by the supervisor, Ms. Eckhart - a refined middle-aged southern lady who loved books more than anything in the world.
"Boy, don't chu know to dry yuh sneakers 'fore yuh walk inna fine place 'o beautie like dis?" Ms. Eckhart said exasperatedly as my puddle-soaked Doc Martens grazed along the floor of the library. Whoops. Irritated southern ladies are scary to talk to, so I muttered an apology before I tip-toed back towards the front entrance, and scraped my shoes on the light-beige doormat, on which I made out the words "Clean your shoes or clean my floor - your choice!" Indeed, Ms. Eckhart.
"That's better." She smirked as I walked back in. "Naw wat'cha lookin' for suga?"
I took a moment to consider what I was going to say. "I'm looking to do some research for a, uh... school project thing." Yeah, that works.
"Naw, ain't that responsible. What's yuh subject?"
"Forensic science." I approached the conversation as if I was the one who needed the research, when in reality I was just doing this for a cute pink-haired girl that I couldn't get out of my head. "I was wondering if you have any books - or really any information at all - about the Children of Reconstructed Consciousness?"
Ms. Eckhart's eyebrows furled upwards as she pursed her lips in caution. "The Children? D'yuh mean that ol' Woodlands cult?"
"Yeah, that one." I replied. "I'd be really happy to have any information about them, really."
Ms. Eckhart slowly leaned back in her chair as she stared off in contemplation. Then she suddenly turned towards me.
"Yuh'knaw'wut? We got tapes in the back. How'd'ya feel 'bout checkin' dose out?"
I was surprised. Tapes? What did she mean by tapes?
"You have tapes? I parroted.
"Uh-huh. Come along, I'll show yuh. They may be helpful."
I began to follow Ms. Eckhart as she rose out of her seat and walked into the echelons of the library. And can I just say - praying I don't come off as some buck toothed book nerd - that libraries are some of the most beautiful buildings in existence. Honestly! Imagine, when the internet didn't exist, and all you had was your local library to go to for information. It contained the furthest extent of humanity's knowledge - or at least, the furthest extent of humanity's knowledge in relation to your local area. Everything there was to know, could be known, should be known, was there, locked away in thousands upon thousands of binded stacks of paper, stacked upon dozens of shelves, all assessable for you - for absolutely zero cost.
The library supervised by Ms. Eckhart, my local place of human knowledge, was a large white building, done up with Spanish architectural styling. As she led me into the foyer and across into the main reading room, I felt like I didn't belong. Little old me, with my half-clean boots, daft adolescent energy, my feet dragging across the polished-brick floors. I was an unholy spirit locked within the mouth of a holy - at least holy feeling - place of beauty.If any of my friends figured out my obsession with libraries, I wouldn't be able to hear the end of it.
"So, how much yuh know 'bout the Children?" Ms. Eckhart asked.
"Not much." I answered honestly. "I heard some stories about the cult from my grandparent's, and my sixth grade teacher who did a social studies lesson on it."
"Yea? And what d'yuh know 'bout them?" She continued.
"I know that it was founded by a guy named Hans Mueller in, like, 1989. They got a lot of traction during the 90s during this whole alternative spiritual movement that was going on, and then in 1998 they went missing without a trace."
"Mm-hm." She nodded. "So youse have a basic introduction."
"Yeah. I never really got into it though."
We walked between the shadows of two large wooden bookshelves that spanned across the length of the room. Ms. Eckhart began gesturing with her hand out, grazing the books and muttering numbers to herself.
"Twenty-one... twenty-two... ah, should be 'ere."
She hauled out a large, evergreen hardcover book whose dust jacket was missing, and had gold lettering on the spine and cover. I could make out some words towards the bottom of the spine: "Rice University Publishing." Ok, not an old wrinkly Harvard professor - but close.
She handed the book to me. "This is one of the most in-depth studies ever done on The Children. I think it'll serve yuh well."
As I focused my attention on the front cover, I suddenly felt a cold shock run down though the length of my spine, my palms turning sweaty as I stared in bewilderment of the gold lettering - the remembrance of a haunting memory.
The name of the book was "God Doesn't Like Tattletales."
***
It was a late night of red and blue flashing lights – Adult swim played on the TV, but no one was watching. Ten-year-old me, usually elated for the thrill of watching something I'm not supposed to was not even paying attention to the TV. Neither was Skye, sobbing next to me, her hands balled into fists that circled around her teary eyes. I hated to see Skye cry - I'd usually do something funny to cheer her up, like slap my cheeks, or make a goofy face. Something, anything. But I couldn't cheer her up now. I didn't even try.
My parents were moping around by the kitchen counter a ways away. Jason was there too, joining in doing that thing adults do when they're trying to solve a crisis – striding back and forth in dim mood lighting, ranting to other adults like they're not trying to solve the exact same thing.
"We should have never let them go out, honey." My mom spilled to my dad, her words slurring over each other as she struggled on the edge of tears. "We're terrible parents. Terrible,
terrible..."
My dad strode over to embrace her, saying nothing, the same tears filling his eyes. "Nah, Ann, you can't say that." Jason said right beside them. "You know that's wrong. You both are great people and great parents. There's nothing you could've done. Nothing I could've done either."
"Jason's right, Ann." My dad murmured to my mom. "There's nothing that could have been done."
"Oh, god." She squealed. "It's all so horrible. I need to lie down... I need to, please – honey – the lights – yes, turn the hallway lights off. Thank you. Oh-"She muttered explicatives as she moped over to the bedroom, leaving my dad, arms crossed, face stern, and Jason, leaning back on the counter, neck forward, eyes sunken.
"I don't think the police department is enough for this." My dad muttered. "I'm planning on making a call to Matthew, over at the ATF."
"The feds? Hell no." Jason exclaimed. "They're gonna turn this entire town into a crime scene and turn our kids into research papers."
"But we know Matthew. You know Matt, Jason! Remember college, sophomore year?"
"That was then, this is now." Jason argued. "He's a pig. I don't work with pigs."
"And then what do you suppose we do?" My dad tried to reason.
"First of all, you sign Silas up for some Psychiatric appointments. I'm doing the same for Skye." Jason answered. "I don't want this manifesting into some wild teenage depression later down the line, doing coke, hooking up with guys just to feel something-"
"I think," my dad held his hand up, "I get your point."
"I'm just saying, man. Mental health is important. Really is. You don't want this to have lasting effects."
I began to tune out the deep, droning voices of our bickering parents as I turned my attention towards Skye. Her back was turned towards me, her auburn (at the time) hair sticking to her face in thin, moist strands that were drenched with tears. I couldn't see her eyes – and I wanted to. Those gray, bluish eyes that shone with a gleam, a glow that glistened around the edges of her pupils and sparkled like crystals embedded in her retinas. I wanted to help her. I needed to help her.
"...Skye?" I struggled to get any words out.
I heard the sobbing cease all at once as Skye sniffed and snorted, rubbing her hands over her runny nose. Then, she finally turned towards me. I looked into her eyes. No spark.
That crystalline glisten that lit up her face like a star in the night sky had seemed to decide that it was no longer wanted. That, somehow, it's little glowing heart had been hurt too much to stay around. It had packed up and left – left Skye's face – the face that was no longer worthy of the glow's presence. Her innocence had been stomped on, crushed, and shattered into little
invisible fragments that now lay scattered upon the grounds of the park.
As I glanced upon her glow-less face, she wrinkled her forehead in frustration, tears still flowing down her cheeks, creating watery paths down her face.
"Your eyes," She murmured through sniffs and snorts, "They're not sparkly anymore." She pouted.
I know, Skye. Yours aren't sparkly anymore either. They haven't been since that day.