Trigger Warning: The content may not be suitable for children or those with a fragile psyche
Outing
The night before Kirk and I argued over who would order food, and neither of us gave in because we were made of stone, so we went to bed hungry. This day we got high in his room. He had a large bag of pills that he carried everywhere with him, and his eyes were black ovals. Zipp was there too. Zipp only smoked pot. He had a job. He had a house. He never got mad when we stole from him. He had a map for his future. He ruined our shared desperation. We hated him.
They were the only people I knew.
It was Zipp’s idea.
"We should go to an amusement park," said Zipp.
"Why?" I asked.
I hadn't left the three-mile radius extending from my apartment in three months. I was terrified that something awful might happen if I did.
"It could be fun," said Zipp.
"Let's just stay here," said Kirk.
Kirk hadn't ventured outside his room in a week. The sun had begun to take on ominous proportions. He worried that its rays touching his skin would turn him to ash.
"We have everything we need here," Kirk continued.
The television had stopped working. It was a single wire out of place. But neither of us had the energy to fix it.
"Come on, we could go on rollercoasters, go down waterslides, we could get fried," said Zipp.
“I don't think I'm up for it," I said.
"I'll pay for your tickets," said Zipp.
"Maybe another day," said Kirk.
"I'll pay for the alcohol," said Zipp.
We consented.
It was a two-hour drive across farmland and desert. Occasionally we drove past those patches of suburban homes where each was identical to the next. I took gleeful pity on their inhabitants. Their happiness was manufactured and worthless. My misery was singular and profound.
As we drove, I eased the lighter under the tin foil, and carefully breathed in the wispy smoke that drifted from its surface.
"There sure are a lot of cows," said Kirk.
I wondered what would happen if his bag ever became empty. I wondered if he would cease to exist.
The Parking lot outside the amusement park was very large.
It was crowded. It was difficult to find a spot. We parked.
"We're here," said Zipp.
There were people everywhere. Families. Children. They were smiling. They were excited. They spoke in voices that hurt. Loud, and undaunted. It was far too bright.
“Let’s go," said Zipp, pocketing a couple of joints and some airplane bottles of vodka, preparing to leave the car.
Kirk and I sat there, unmoving. Two frail blocks of ice.
"I don't think I can do it," said Kirk.
"Me neither,” I said.
"Are you sure? we drove all this way," said Zipp. There were tears in his eyes.
"I can't do it," repeated Kirk.
"Let's at least go to a park,” said Zipp.
"Fine," I said.
Kirk didn't say anything.
Kirk would hang himself just before his 21st birthday and shape all my memories of him as puzzle pieces, to put together in such a way that everything was my fault.
It is winter now, and in a few days I will light a candle which will burn for twenty-four hours to commemorate his death, and I will wish that I had learned how to pray.
We drove to a park. It wasn't much of a park; it was just a small section of long yellow grass with two decaying benches pressed into its surface.
"Let's sit there," said Zipp, pointing to one of the benches.
"Wait," I said, "we should get something to drink first."
"Yeah," said Kirk. "can you go to the liquor store Zipp? I’d like some sweet wine, and maybe some whiskey."
Zipp returned with a handful of brown paper bags.
"Let's go," said Zipp.
"Let me drink a little, and then we can leave,” I said.
I made it through a quarter of the fifth before Zipp asked again.
"You can go if you want," I told Zipp, " I'm going to sit in the car."
Kirk nodded his head in agreement.
Zipp sat in the car with us.
"Maybe someone will sit on that bench," I said.
"Maybe some birds will land nearby," said Kirk.
No one sat on the bench. There were a few brief sightings of birds, before they rapidly left our line of sight.
Kirk didn't say anything. He would go to work tomorrow where he sat at a desk, and had conversations at lunch, and sent in reports on something that was far beyond our understanding. Tomorrow was a time too distant for us to contemplate. But we had won some useless battle against the only person who cared for us, and we felt satisfaction in this.
We finished the rest of the liquor.
In a month it would be autumn, and the few trees that guarded the exterior of this park would become naked, and their twisted branches would outstretch, welcoming the rain.
We drove back the way we came, past gas stations and fields, and many more things I could not comprehend because I was too high to think, back to where we lived.
___________
Inside one of the countless hours I spent in Kirk's dim room, he had beckoned me over to his closet, and I had followed him there. Amid torn clothes, and bits of strewn tobacco he had lifted a shoebox out of the clutter. He had opened its lid and shown me what was contained inside. It was a baby bird. Its wing mangled. Its mother had abandoned it. He was nursing it back to health. Feeding it stale cracker crumbs and thimbles full of water.
"Don't ever tell anyone about this," Kirk had told me.
And I understood why.
None of us wanted anyone to know that we cared.
It would destroy
Everything
We had worked so hard
To create
END
