The American Dream

Choppy, black hair pasted to a pale, clammy forehead. Hands and arms restrained by invisible chains, blinded by lights and a thick film over curious eyes. Body strapped down to a rough, hard table. Deep dark voices speaking some sort of alien language over the incapacitated form.

“I hear he's on the DL.”

“No, they're just sitting him out.”

“How's the fever?”

A cool, calm hand rested threateningly on the slimy forehead, a breathe unreleased and small body stiff. The thin, damp paper-towel removed from clear gray eyes revealed a mother and a thermometer, it was too late, her abductors must have already left leaving her father and sister in their place.

Although she believes and rants about her one time abduction, it is believed to be caused by a high fever, a tightly tucked in blanket and uncomfortable old couch. At that moment she believed that she was surrounded by aliens, but she wasn't, yet for the rest of her life she truly was.

High school: a time to find one's self through pointless social events and horrificly long classes. These people, aliens, not 'aliens' in the sense of extraterrestrial but in the way that they seem like complete and total freaks compared to herself. Here she is confined to a single classroom for an hour just to be let free for a five minute walk around break to find the same room after it has changed its location. To find the same kids, after changing their appearance, every hour altering age, religion, culture, and sex. Every person a replica, every room the same expect the gym.

The gymnasium: a room to exercise. At the moment the gym plastered with red and gold banners, at the moment the walls covered with signs with names and numbers. At the moment the 'aliens' seem to be exercising their voices, in the spacious room who's cold walls seem to be bouncing their guttural growls back at them in outrage. As they de-evolve into drooling beasts the football team comes running in, the shouting only increasing in volume. Kids, who at one time, mocked the fat boys now scream at them, releasing long suppressed anger? No. Releasing this need to be one of them. Their clothes begin to rip as they become hunched, tails ripping through their pants and their skin blows off to reveal fur, razor teeth and saliva dripping from their mouths; now they are truly brethren, bonded through blood of gold and red.

“Everyone get into the stands.” A teacher, not yet converted, growls at her. Shaking, looking back and forth she makes a dire run for it, managing to squeak, “I have to use the bathroom.”

“Be quick!” The teacher barks at her quickly retreating form.

Sweat dripping from her forehead, and blood beating hard in her ears she sits in the hallway in front of the bathroom. Breathing: in, out, in, out. Ritual, ceremonious, gracious to be alive. Looking down the hall toward the gym her face turns into a grimace.

“There is no going back.”

Foot steps. Stop. Eyes traveling up a to meet a older pair. A teacher seen only in hallways, believed to not have a class, only a presence.

“I won't tell if you won't.” With that he leaves out the door to the real world, abandoning her to her own demise in her man-made reality.

“That decides it.” Getting up she opens the gray steal door, cool fall air meeting her dry, flaky lips, burning her dry throat. Pleasure. Freedom. Although coldness and chapped lips may seem like the antithesis of pleasure, to a high school student any sort of environment that does not include teachers is freedom thus deserving of a feeling of pleasure.

“Where are you going?”

Whispers. In contrast to the shrieks and howls of the gym, this was a lullaby. Soft, raspy, natural. Head whipping to the side to meet old bark and leaves of fire. Shifty eyes and secret smiles she replies, “I knew you could speak.”

“Yeah, I figured you did.”

Smoke and fire reflected in aviator sunglasses. Studded leather that still smelled like cattle and a cigarette that smelled like fresh tar. A true alien in all definitions (except the definition of being from a different country or planet of course). Walking closer his Doc Martins crushed gravel and hopes. Releasing toxic smoke into the air, he smiles, she inhales. Struck with amazement, no longer in dazed.

“Good. I didn't want to explain to the tree how I knew it could speak.”

“That could get awkward. I doubt it would reply.”

“Well, you don't know him like I do.”

“Shouldn't you be in the gym?” Flash. Shrieks, body paint, panting, sweating on top of one another, primal. Nausea and disgust fill her; beginning to retch she holds it back, in fear, in regret.

“I should go.” Head turning, facing front. Legs stuck. In quicksand? No. The ground appears to be solid dirt. Stuck motionless. Head turned up toward the sky she stays, basking in the crisp air and watching the ambiguous clouds pass her by. He doesn't move. Watching her watch the sky.

“I thought you were leaving?”

“What gave you that impression?”

“You said you were.”

“No. I didn't. You're mistaken.” She says simply. Her head falls, chin touching chest. Hands in her pocket she begins to trek, in any direction but backwards. She trudges forward.

“Why are you leaving?”

“I said I was going to.”

“No. You didn't.”

“It was implied.” Face falling to the dried ground he continues to watch her retreating figure. Confusion, frustration.

“Reg, wait up.” A pause of movement. Neither breathe. Neal takes a drag. Fingers flicking the gray dead ash to the cold grown he begins his decent. Gray eyes follow. Hands stuffed self-consciously into pockets, bitten nails hidden and forgotten. They escape together.

“Where are we going?”

“Where the road takes us.” She doesn't look at him. He takes out another cigarette. Looking at the carton he looks back at her. Slight shake of the head. His eyes drop and the carton is again hidden away. Forgotten. Cigarette white, red and brown. His own version of the American flag, of freedom.

Trees: Dark, brown bark or deathly white trunks all with a phoenix nesting in their branches.

“Want to sit?” Neal motions toward a gray protruding rock, Reggie already in the process of sitting. They sit side by side yet back to back, Neal lighting up another cigarette and Reggie taking in a deep breathe of fresh air.

By JScib