Permanent Scars

Nerves

November 29, Friday. 3:12 p.m.

Every day, all day long, everywhere I go, all I hear about is the apocalypse. The air is causing people's cells to deteriorate. People are becoming self-imploding shells. The state is going to issue special suits to prevent this. The head of the school gave a huge speech about it in the auditorium this morning, and everybody is panicking. It wasn't long ago that my daddy phoned me with the news, and I know he spoke of things like this often in the past, so honestly it shouldn't bother me too much. Many a time people are freaking out when there's nothing to worry about. They panic, they overreact, they make life hell for everyone around them. And the stupid propaganda isn't helping. Fear-mongering, Daddy calls it.

And yet, despite knowing all this, I'm still terrified.

Adam asked if I'd walk with him to work today, so that's what I'm doing. In all honesty, I have nothing better to do. Besides, he offered to teach me a few more guitar chords in his free time.

   "You're quiet today," he observes as we meet up at the apartment and head down the street. I shrug it off. Perhaps he thinks I'm quiet because normally, when together, we can't shut up.

   "I'm just thinking."

   He glances at me, skeptical. "But it doesn't feel like you're just thinking."

   I wait for him to go on, seeing as it's impossible to fool someone who's pretty much always on my wavelength.

    "It feels like you're overwhelmed," he mutters, a very deep concentrated look darkening his eyes.

  "I don't know what's wrong with me," I frown, then huff out a big sigh, trying to clear everything and appear normal. I feel bad being this way when he's around, like I drag everything down when I'm not on his level.

   "I do. You've been worrying too much," he points out. "You feel like you have to keep up with me all the time, because you hate being left in the dust."

   I swear that boy reads my thoughts. I glance up at him, those understanding, mellow hazel eyes, that patient face. So eager and so full of kindness, ideas, poetry, music, a desire to help. That jagged mop of ink-black hair. Those thick, dark smudges posing as eyebrows. That saucy mouth with the two rings in the left half of the bottom lip. Those ears, so ready to listen, so absorbent, with the black and white striped gauges in the lobes. Plugs, he calls them.

   Without really knowing what I'm doing, I drop my head against his shoulder in a sad moment of helplessness. Sympathetic, he emits something crossed between a chuckle and a whimper. As I lift my head he assures me, "You'll be alright. We'll both be."

   "I hope so." The words come out in such a desperate moan I wish I hadn't opened my mouth.

   He smirks soothingly. "You will be. Don't worry." Hand on the music shop door, he turns to me. "Care to stick around until I clock out tonight? Then when Dylan comes to pick me up, we can walk you home."

   He needn't bother, but he's stubborn and never takes no for an answer, so I'm not about to fight him. I think of the feeling of impending doom that's been churning inside me lately, and deciding that I feel better about it so long as I'm with him, I nod silently. He smiles and pulls the door open, gesturing grandly, kicking the stopper in place so people can come and go as they please.

   "Right this way, then. I'm sure Tom won't mind you hanging out. He doesn't encourage loitering but if you're working on a musical piece, he's more than happy to let you do your thing until we close. Besides, he told me he likes hearing your uke music in his store."

   Hearing this, I look away bashfully, then realize there's something I've been forgetting these past few months.

   "Um. Adam, how late do you work?"