White moon. By Alonna Kilpatrick
It's 9 P.M. Your rag-tag squad has just bustled into the main building of the substratum from the capture of an Elysium. You're all welcomed with the enthusiasm of your peers and glares from Eliza as well as her little pets; each reaction just as rewarding as the other. There's a little party set up on the shooting range. Your group looks at one another desperately, hoping someone has come up with an excuse to bail. No one on your squad feels like celebrating, but you all decide to humor the masses. Always for the people, right?
There are lots of drinks set out on plastic tables a few yards away from the main building; some alcoholic, some virgin. A quick glance at your crew and you can tell that the only thing they'll be putting to their lips will be strong enough to forget. You don't disagree.
There's awkward small talk made for the first hour or so until someone smuggles in a record player and hooks it up to speakers. Complicated, chaotic rhythms, blaring electric guitars, and thumping bass blast out into oblivion, drowning all hopes of conversation, let alone thoughts--just the way you like it-- as people slowly break out of their professional shells and begin to dance.
It's 10:30 P.M. You've had at least four glasses of champagne and you're working on your third beer. You don't feel guilty for overindulging; Tom's had about twice the amount alcohol that you've had and if he can take it at his age, then you can too.
Everyone is dancing at this point. You can tell who has had drinks and who hasn't by the way they dance. Some people are stiffly bouncing in time with the music, still desperately trying to make conversation. Some are bounding around the grounds and screaming enthusiastically, punching their fists in the air and swinging their heads, creating pinwheels of hair in a variety of colors and lengths. Some have started some contemporary dance contests and by the looks of things, it's gotten pretty intense. Three injuries already.
You? You're standing in the crowd of people circling the dance contest, raising your beer in the air when impressed with something or another and shouting your approval. You've lost track of Tom, but you're sure he has to be somewhere around. Where could he go? Back into the main building? Sure it's warm, but who would want to miss this rave? You think you even saw Sadie dancing right up next to the speakers with Ben.
It's 11:30 P.M. Chunky flakes of snow fall down onto the noisy horde of the living, cooling off the dancers at its touch. Snow build up is already ankle deep. The moon looms over the crowd of people on the shooting range. It's light isn't enough to make out human features or details on clothes, so it's easy to forget who's a stranger and who isn't, making social interaction a breeze.
You've long ago lost track of the amount of alcohol you've consumed. You've been dancing in the circle intended for professionals for who knows how long, sloshing your beverage all over yourself and your company. People roar in approval. At least you're pretty sure that they do. You can't hear anything but the blaring music, but you see their mouths wide open, obviously screaming about something. Every time the song reaches an obnoxious chorus of screaming and a ruckus of instruments, birds retreat from the trees, dropping their pale feathers onto the snow like ghostly confetti.
It's well past midnight. Someone thought it would be a good idea to go to the woods. You had no argument. You as well as a few other kids a bit older than you, including Sadie and Ben, carelessly run in past the tree line, but not far enough to be out of ear shot of the music. You could hear that little old record player for miles, whether you wanted to or otherwise.
Some of them cartwheeling, some frolicking, sprinting with their arms in the air--it doesn't matter the way you all traveled, it just mattered that your small gathering got through the woods. Everyone has at least one bottle of beer in their hands. No one says anything worth mentioning, just shouts of joy and drunkenness with a garble of giggling. Stumbling and tripping all the way, you all finally arrive at the snow-covered meadow where you had built a snowman the night before. You're pleased to find that it's still there, proudly pointing it out to your empty headed peers, receiving their judgement-impaired approval.
You wouldn't consider any of these people your friends--hell, you don't even know half of their names-- but you certainly are happy being in their company. What's the saying? 'Ignorance is bliss'? Well, you finally understand. You've never felt so clueless and blind before. You've also never felt so giddy in your life, not even in the meadow where you first met Tom and Jacob. Not caring/noticing seems to be the best remedy for the horrid plague of despair that formerly tainted your mind.
All of your worries seem to fade from distinction more and more each time you pick up a beer. You forget about Michael. You forget about your past that has bullied and stood over you your entire life. All of your concentration goes into the spontaneous snowball fight that you suddenly started participating in. You laugh and squeal in surprise every time you're unexpectedly hit with a cold, wet ball of snow. You aren't the best shot at the moment, but you still manage to land a few hits on some nameless members of your youth, sending a fresh flood of joy coursing through your veins and into your mind. Everyone is in light spirits and their balances are severely off. The more you trip and fall, the more humorous you find your own intoxication and clumsiness. The joke that never stops being entertaining. Your knees are caked in dried blood and your pals have most of the skin shredded of of them, but you continue to giggle.
Then, cutting through the music and never-ceasing good jest, the sound of a gun firing sends your pack of youth into tangible silence. The record player from the shooting range scratches and finally silences itself altogether. You look around at the confused teenagers that surround you, still clutching balls of snow. They look back at you.
Then, one of the less intelligent members of your group says, "What was that?"
"It was a gun, you idiot."
"From where?"
"How would I know?"
"Guys, shut up." Everyone quiets to listen. A few people glance around the area where they sit in the snow. Nothing else happens.
"We need to go find where that came from."
"Why?"
"Because someone could be hurt. "
You're having trouble deciphering what they're saying, their speech is so slurred and your brain moving too slowly to catch up with the rapid garble. You don't say anything. You don't make eye contact with anyone. You bite the inside of your cheeks to keep yourself from speaking. You don't want to say what you're sure that it was: another fatality.
A few people stand up as if they knew where to go. Ben doesn't look too concerned, content to have his mouth glued to Sadie's lips. He doesn't look up, keeping his eyes shut tight, and Sadie doesn't seem to mind either. You should've known.
Then you hear shouts off to your right. Everyone else perks up in response.
"Maybe somebody found where the gun shot came from."
"Come on."
You and your peers stumble through the thick shrubbery off towards the general area that the voices were heard from. You eventually step out into a small clearing where a group of people, including Eliza, stands around some bloody, crumpled up mass resting in the slush and pine needles. There's streaks and splatters of red tainting the sparkling snow. Your paranoias were unfortunately correct.
You cut a path through the hovering people to look at the body. You're met with a familiar face donning unfamiliar features; eyes wide but filmed over, mouth gaping open, and jaw slackened. Tom. But it isn't Tom. Its a different Tom from a different reality, a cruel one. In his left hand is a gun and blood trickles from a wound on the same side of his skull, matting the hair in its path like scarlet syrup. Countless empty beer bottles decorate the scene around the body, mocking a grim kaleidoscope. Suicide.
You clasp a hand over your mouth and your eyebrows knit themselves together in horror. You know its the real Tom, your Tom. The Tom that had lost his best friend just days before and watched a comrade die in battle that morning. The rest of your peers start to come up behind you and you can hear the sounds they make as each one of them makes the painful realization one at a time.
The moon illuminates the scene, as if you would want a better look. A few people are crying behind you. You doubt that they even knew Tom. You didn't either, really. But you knew him well enough to be sure that he definitely wouldn't make friends with anyone around your age.
You glance up at Eliza, your hands still preventing your lips from letting out a scream. She looks as if she's in pain and tears well in her sharp eyes. Hatred pumps through your veins in the place of blood. You knew how much Tom despised Eliza. She had kept him from continuing doing the only thing he loved doing besides drink: go into combat. And with the latter so carelessly torn out of the equation, the only thing he had left to turn to was the alcohol that his peers mockingly shoved into his hands.
You ball your fists at your sides and storm away from the scene in a fit of rage, in an attempt to prevent yourself from punching someone. You may have had too much to drink, but you've never been more sober in your life. You head back to the main building, blowing off everyone you stalk past that bombard you with questions.
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