The Attic

Seventeen

            In the morning he wanted to see if the body was still there. John rose, careful not to wake Paul, who’d curled up on the couch. His entire body was stiff and aching. John’s back seemed rigid as a board, and his neck hurt whenever he turned it too far to the left. The doorknob seemed a bit stiff. John tried to force it open, while noticing the chill coming from the harsh outside.

            Paul started to become aware of his surroundings when he felt the couch move as John stood up. He stretched slightly, not remembering anything in particular but feeling a tight ball of anxiety in his chest, he decided it was best not to fully wake up.

            The creaking noise of the door opening, and then a second sound, an odd rushing-falling noise, was what made him jump up from his position, lying down. Paul rubbed an eye. John was standing in front of some kind of white rectangle. Paul lumbered over to John.

            John had placed a hand to what would have been eye-level, and watched with a kind of disbelief as the handprint remained in the snow after he took it away. Paul turned to John as if he held all the answers.

            “We’re… we’re completely snowed in,” John said.

            “No,” Paul whispered, and he took hit the snow experimentally. A shower of fine white powder landed on his feet, melting on contact.

            “Is this even possible? In just a few hours?” John wondered aloud.

            “I don’t know…” Paul said. “I mean, it must be possible, since it happened…” his voice trailed off.

            “This was meant to happen,” John said somberly.

            “It’s Canada,” Paul rationalized. “In December it’s bound to snow. Maybe we were asleep longer than we thought…”

            John shook his head.

            “Look, we can always dig our way out,” Paul said, scratching at the snowy wall with his bare hands. A large chunk dislodged, and snow came streaming in, covering Paul up to his ankles. He slammed the door before any more could make its way in.

            “It’s useless,” John called, headed for the kitchen.

            Paul was kneeling on the ground, pawing at the mound of snow, not sure what do to with it. “John, can you fetch me a… a rag or something?” Paul asked.

            Already the snow was turning liquid inside, covering his bare and now freezing feet in the icy sludge. John appeared and handed him a dishcloth. Paul covered the melting snow with it, hoping that it would dry it while it melted.

            “Well… there’s got to be a way out,” Paul said, his hands on his hips, like he could sternly tell the snow to disappear.

            “The phone isn’t working. So our emergency police-contact button won’t either.”

            “Alright then… we can use fire,” Paul said with a hint of desperation, craning his neck to look at the living room’s window, which showed nothing but solid snow.

            “Yeah, let’s burn the bloody house down and us with it,” John said bitterly. He picked up one log of the three that lay next to the fireplace and put it into the dying fire. They’d run out of firewood soon. “There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be. We said it ourselves.”

            “But we’re not meant to be trapped in Canada under feet and feet of snow…” Paul said, his voice small. He sat on the floor next to John, one hand outstretched to receive the warmth from the flames.

            “We’re not. I’m supposed to be dead, and you’re supposed to be out there, grieving, not being dragged into all this.”

            “John, don’t say that,” Paul said. John stared forward, and Paul reached out to turn John’s face towards him. Paul’s expression radiated so much empathy it was almost painful.

            “Ever since that day, you’ve been trying to save me, but it’s only hurting you. It’s only a matter of time anyway. I’m not of this time anymore. I’m not supposed to be on this Earth past December.”

            Paul shook his head, and John could almost see the panic beneath the surface. Small, shiny beads of tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

            “Where—where are you getting all that from,” Paul choked out. “It’s going to be alright, everything is going to be alright—“

            “I’m not Linda. You can’t just placate me like that.”

            At the mention of Linda, Paul realized that in the commotion of the past few days he’d completely forgotten about his family. Guilt churned inside him. He wasn’t twenty and on the road with John anymore. How were Stella, Mary, and James? What was Linda saying to them when they asked about Daddy?

            Paul looked crestfallen, suddenly.

            “What if this is really it, in the middle of nowhere, under the snow. And what if I never see the kids again?”

            A resolve was starting to form within John. He wouldn’t let Paul take any more bullets for him, literal or metaphorical. Paul, at least had to make it out. Things would be made right again.

            John remembered and disregarded what Paul had said when they’d arrived there, and he grabbed Paul’s face between his hands before the other could protest. Their lips grazed, and John loosened his grip on Paul. He felt a twinge of relief when Paul leaned into him and deepened the kiss. He’d never really been able to resist him.

            John let his fingers slip into Paul’s hair, as thick and dark as ever, and he held onto Paul. One last time, one good real last time. For the sake of the old days.

            “It will be alright,” John said once he’d pulled away enough to create space for him to speak. “You’ll get out of this.”

            Under normal circumstances, Paul would’ve wondered why he didn’t say “we,” but he was too dazed at the moment. Every reason why John had been an addiction, the worst kind of addiction when Paul had been twenty, came rushing back to him with the taste of John’s lips.

            Paul pulled him back towards him blindly.