The Pseudo Semicolon

CHAPTER 3: A Trip down Memory Lane

"Who?" Charlie spoke into the phone as Devland pulled on his jacket, the evening was quite chilly, with September leaves slowly fluttering to the ground and crunching under Devland's anxious footsteps.

"Akir–Aster. Aster Fukumoto. I need his number."

"For the English assignment?"

"Nah for the fucking... What else?" Devland snapped.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as questions surged through him, spiralling in his head. What did Max do? What was about to come?

"Damn, the sickness is making you grumpy." Charlie mused before reciting the required digits. Devland wanted to ask him about who the Elites were, how close Charlie was to Max but... considering that he didn't know who exactly to trust [Thanks for that, Max. You could've been more fucking specific.], he was trapped in a mental see-saw that, due to the weight of his suspicions, was standing in perfect equilibrium.

"Sorry man. Thanks for the help." Devland finally sighed, omitting his questions and hanging up. He finally looked around, taking in his surroundings. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he realised he was standing in front of the cemetery.

And what was even more ironic was that he was wearing Max's clothes.

He probably put it on absent-mindedly, too lost in his own world to focus on the real one. They didn't fit him as Max had narrower shoulders and was a head taller than Devland. The dull blue sweater hung loosely from his frame, the black pants held up by a belt.

Fuck.

Devland sat down on the pavement, taking deep breaths as he got a hold of himself. He was panicking, overwhelmed with thoughts and it didn't help that his feelings were rearing its ugly head and repeatedly banging itself against the glass wall.

Let's think about this logically.

He let the thoughts spiral for a bit, searching for the source. As he found it, he realised all his questions arose from a feeling of hurt, of betrayal and confusion. Devland buried those feelings so deep, it wouldn't interfere with his thinking anytime soon.

Next he focused on compartmentalising his thoughts, picking out the important questions like 'Why was Akira Fukumoto involved?', 'What did Max get caught up in?', 'Who are the Elites?', 'Is this all connected to his suicide?' etc. The rest of his doubts were ignored.

He let those questions fester in his head, trying to come up with answers. Akira Fukumoto... A? Had Max mentioned a person called 'A' in his letters? Devland had to check. Was Akira his friend? Someone he had trusted? Probably not, otherwise he wouldn't have said he was lonely. Or had he not trusted Akira enough? No, that's not possible considering Max had wanted Devland to drag Akira into whatever this was.

Max... what had he done?

Devland couldn't quite grasp this different perspective of Max. He had been the golden boy, always was. His grades had been perfect, he was a great athlete.

He had been a great son.

Atleast, that's what Devland's mom said. She always wanted him to be like Max, to be as amazing and perfect like his brother. Devland thinks it's because she hadn't quite seen Max as her son; he was his father's son. Hence, it had turned into a competition.

Devland thinks she only truly had seen him as a son when he died.

Funny. Would she only see Devland when he was dead? Would she only see Devland when he was just bones buried in the earth, worms eating away at his decomposed flesh? Would she see him as him, when he was rotting behind recognition?

Devland didn't know; it was a depressing thing to think about.

He fiddled with his fingers—a nervous habit—and decided to take a trip down memory lane, imagining things that could've been his normal.

Devland was seven years old. He and his brother were coming back from the barber's donning a terrible haircut. 'You look like a pig with a bowl cut.' Devland had remarked to his brother, who in turn, whacked him over the head.

'As if you look any better yourself. I bet your Becky would absolutely love your new look.' Max retorted, enjoying the way Devland's whole face turned pink from the mention of his crush.

'She's not my Becky!' Devland insisted, 'And I don't like her either! She's annoying and terrible at Maths.'

'Lalalalala You love Becky Affleck! Devland loves Becky Affleck!'

'I don't! Shut up, you're so annoying!'

'Okay fine—Becky is a horrible ugly girl who's annoying and—' Max was interrupted by a swift punch from Devland, straight to the stomach. He clutched his gut in pain, letting out wheezes that Devland interpreted as laughter.

'Okay maybe I like her a little bit.' Devland admitted, making a beeline for the ice cream shop, 'And MAYBE I like the fact that she's terrible at Maths.'

'Why?' Max catched up to him, recovered from the punch.

Devland fiddled with his hands, ' 'Cause then she'll ask me questions and I can impress her with my answers.'

'Oh wow.' Max whistled appreciatively, 'Young love truly is impressive.'

' 'Young love'?' Devland scoffed, 'You're only a YEAR older than me, "grandpa". Get over yourself.'

Max insisted that he was mentally older than Devland, about how he was more "grown up" and "mature" than the other kids because his teachers said so.

Later down the road, Devland realised both he and Max were forced to grow up early, forced to be "grown up" and "mature" because who else could protect them from all the arguments and the fights? Who else was there for the little kids living in the house with the creaky stairs?

Devland raked a hand through his hair. He had let it grow over the past year and it now hung in messy locks above his shoulder. He was now fond of it, trying out different hairstyles, it was the only time he could ever express himself.

He finally stood up and decided to take a walk. As Devland rounded the corner, he bumped into someone, immediately taken back from the sudden touch. 

"Devland?" His victim spoke, bewildered.

"Hi Todd" Devland forced a grin, coming out of his depressed reverie and into the real world.

He hated the real world.