Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 29: Any Old Kind of Day

29
Any Old Kind of Day

==========DANNY==========

It started with a horrifying scream. Then there were people and then there were sirens. And then there were people, sirens, and lights. Then there was a woman crying. Then there were children crying. Then there was vomit. Then Lucille collapsed in hysteria. Then there was a stretcher. Then Max and I were thirteen and riding our bikes and exploring the forest. Then we were talking about girls. Then there was blood-soaked linen. Then we were deep in the forest and nailing together our log cabin. Then there was the smell of diesel. Then there were more sirens. Then we got into a fight over trading cards. Then there was a hand on my shoulder and words spoken to me. I nodded. The crying continued. Then we made up from that fight over trading cards. The crying stopped. I kept on nodding. We then began high school together. Then the crowd left and then the people went inside. I was tired. Then Mom was taking pictures of us at grad. Then there was my parked car. Then what was, wasn't anymore. I was exhausted. There was nothing left but the night. Then the black gave way to navy, and navy gave way to blue, and blue gave way to the sun.

Then I was driving home and passing people driving to work. And then the rest of the world woke up and went on like it did any other day.

Then I parked in my driveway.

Then I opened the front door.

And then I saw my birthday cake encircled with eighteen unlit candles.

Then I realized Mom had left.

Then what was, wasn't anymore.

Then I gushed with tears.

Then I begged to a God I hoped existed that I would stop feeling. I prayed I had died too.

Then God reminded me that we only prayed when we needed something, and turned his back.

When I eventually collected myself up off the floor, I was certain that had all been a nightmare. Although, I wished that the delirium after emerging from the blackout lasted a little longer upon waking than it had, because the tsunami of reality broke me back down. Tragedy punished its disbelievers.

I didn't know when I'd gotten home, or how long I'd slept for, but judging by the light shining through the windows like illuminated mosaics in a church, highlighting the dust hovering around—I determined that it had to be some point in the late afternoon. On the counter by the front door, I saw my phone. Exactly one hundred missed calls from Mom. I walked into the kitchen, and it looked too familiar.

The windows should've borne scars of shattered glass, and the cabinets broken and left in wooden scatterings on the floor. The world should have been engulfed in flames, been destroyed, torn apart by war.

But no. Everything looked as if it could've been any old kind of day:

"Danny!" Mom would call out from the living room. "Max is at the door!" I would run to the front door, too excited to only be greeting a friend.

"Yo, Max!"

"Hey, Danny."

"Let me go grab my bike. I'll be like two seconds." I would turn my head in the direction of the living room and shout: "OKAY, MOM, I'm going out now!"

Mom would shout back: "You boys better wear helmets!"

But we never wore our helmets because we couldn't die.

My eyes scanned the kitchen. All too easily I could envision it. How effortlessly my legs could collapse so I would fall headfirst into the gloriously pointed edge of the kitchen table. Jabbing deep into my temple. Relieving me from this exhaustion.