Adam - A Novella

18

I was surprised to wake up to my phone off the charger.

In fact, it wasn't anywhere.

I tore up my entire bunk and all my bags looking for it, along with checking the sides of the bed in case it had fallen. It was nowhere.

"What are you looking for?" Mavia asked, pulling on her sneakers to go play with one of the neighbors.

"My phone. Did you take it?"

"No. I don't want your stinky phone." She Velcro'd her shoe and grabbed her sparkly Disney princess bag, which was filled to the brim with toys, coloring books, crayons, and snacks.

"Okay. Have fun baby." I waved to her as she left and traced her with my eyes as she silently made her way out the door. Usually, Maria sees her out safely, so it made my anxiety spike when there was no good wishes being sent to her from out of eyesight. I glanced around my room for my phone once more before deciding to check the bathroom and living room again.

I checked the couch cushions while calling from the landline when I heard my mother's footsteps approaching behind me. Her stilettos clicked on the linoleum space in the kitchenette, otherwise I wouldn't have heard her at all. "Have you seen my phone?" I asked at once, cutting off what I thought was her morning greeting.

She held my unlocked phone up silently.

"Tell me why," she began, clicking into my messages. I straightened up, wondering what could be so bad in my messages that calls for this confrontation. It's not like I send nudes or anything. "I've found this in your texts?" At first, I thought it was nothing specific, and she was losing her mind. She stepped closer, however, and a sappy, heart-emoji filled conversation with Caleb was shown.

My heart had to have stopped beating for a moment.

"Are you dating him?" She asked in a whisper-yell, scrolling down, down, down, all the way until my sky picture from last night and it's sappy two-liner. I swiped at her arm to knock it out and grab it, but she was quick, and my arm clawed at air miserably. My eyes were sore from holding back tears, which seemed to flow nonstop nowadays, and my arm quickly fatigued from soaring uselessly. "Well?"

"Mother..." I bowed my head in shame. The birds chirping outside and smell of bacon on a neighbor's skillet were all I could process outside of my own misery. My own fear.

"I'm so disappointed in you Adam. I thought maybe with you reattending church, and seeing that sweet young lady still... Well, I thought you'd change. I thought my suspicions would be wrong." She clutched my phone to her heart. My own was beating more rapidly than I think I've ever felt in my life, except perhaps the night on Old Soldier Bridge.

"Please don't tell father." I begged, genuflecting to her with my hands interlacing in favor. She snooted at me.

"I will try not to. And for your sake, I hope he doesn't find out."

The pictures of his apartment soared in, and even though I've already seen some, the way a place can change after a month abandonment makes it almost completely brand new. Agatha's English breakfast pictures were my favorite. I've always adored how she cooks meat. Tender and juicy, but not soggy. Flavorful; original. And Caleb's photography skills were on point; each one made me feel like I was almost there with him, eating sausages and eggs and changing the bulbs in long forgotten lava lamps. Almost. I was somehow personally excited to see him become a photographer. I'm not sure what level that deep desire to see his success comes from, but I'm fully confident he can do it. Any picture he ever takes could be portfolio work.

I'm not sure what I want to be yet. I'm not even sure I'll complete high school on time. But I've always liked to write. Writing my suicide note was the first real opportunity I had to be creatively free in a long time, and I missed that feeling greatly. I've been sending Caleb little excerpts from nonexistent poems and Haikus to relieve that creative need, and each time I make something come to life through writing, the more I consider becoming an author. I'm almost completely sold, but a voice deep in my soul is screaming at me otherwise. I think it's Cool Adam. He may be alive still.

Or maybe it's depression. I've heard people talk about it manifesting as a voice. I never really got that until I started ignoring it. Ignoring the creature telling me how worthless I am, and how I'll never make it anywhere, especially if I'm not straight. The little voice that drove me to try suicide long before I'd reconnected with Caleb. Long before I knew what depression even was.

Only three months after Caleb left. No real friends. No sister. Only a burning sadness that made me choke on air and want to scream until my lungs gave out. Nine years old, and instead of hitting trees with sticks, I was laying on my bed, wondering about how deep death really goes. And wondering how far I was willing to find out, how far I was willing to go to make this clingy despair go away.

The artillery road by my trailer park was very busy. Cars rushed by like it was a highway, and crossing it was a bet on your life. (At least, before the city installed that crosswalk.) Exactly what I was hoping to find. I grasped the long sleeves of my mom's dark hoodie, as to cover my presence in the setting sun, and stepped to the curb conspicuously. Not a single car saw me or slowed down. It was weird trying to suppress my natural instinct to wait to cross. Instead of waiting for a gap to cross for school, I waited to stand in the middle dangerously. It didn't take long to find one, and before I could let myself think anything through, the idea of not feeling a wrenching, unbearable pain in my head drove me forward in front of a particularly large box truck.

The feeling of the full force of the truck knocking me into the concrete woke me from my memory, where I was healthy and alive in my home. Safe. At least, for now. I had been writing my feelings down on paper, easily formatting it to a poem with rhyming. I reread the paper solemnly:

"If when we reach so far from now,

And our dreams are still distant,

Who will wake us from our delusion anyhow?

How will we know what is and what isn't?

If I'm still young but you've matured

Like a mama bear and her tiny cub

Like a chick and a chicken, baby and old bird

Who's responsible for the nub?

If love runs dry and skin grows cold

If I'm dried out and you're quite wet

Was our time made of gold?

Were our destinies ever set?

If when you die, I remain alive

Was it all a dream?

If I can't win, If I can't thrive

Maybe death was worth it. Or it'll seem."

I put the paper in the binder of my poems under my underwear. Not that it's necessarily a secret, but it's not exactly my proudest hobby. The binder was growing thicker now, and I started to ease into the idea of perhaps taking creative writing classes to smoothen my rough edges.

I typed out the poem and sent it to Caleb, asking him what he thought of it. He responded exactly how I expected he would; Praise, love, and useful constructive criticism. I love him for that. Well, I love him for a lot. But that's on the list. I pondered for a moment what nine-year-old me running in front of box trucks to kill off the unbearable pain of life would think about me.

I think he'd be pretty proud.