The dead lingered.

Long departed kids clung to friends and family. They aged with them in everything but body even as their names slipped almost completely from the memory of those they’d held dearest during their short time spent alive. Deceased mothers and fathers spent their afterlife watching their children grow up. They checked closets for monsters and attended all of the first days, sitting in the front row at weddings and celebrating promotions. Those with no one to remember them drifted. They shadowed strangers, whispering their names to them at the latest hour of the night while they dreamed in hopes of leaving behind even the faintest trace of who they’d been.

The membrane between life and death was a thin, semi permeable one that left too much to be seen, too much to yearn for.

Patience often found herself restless, prodding at this membrane whenever she could in search of a tear in the fabric. Owl called it heaven, and according to him, everyone had one. Hers had been modeled to look almost exactly like the street she’d grown up on, likely meant to bring some sort of comfort, but with each passing day she found herself growing more and more disappointed. Often, it was a matter of choosing the lesser evil; living in suspension, or watching the world move on without her.

“There ain’t nothing to do here. How can this be heaven?”

“Yes there is. You just ain’t figured out what it is you want to do yet.” He said matter-of-factly, as if he were explaining simple addition to a grown adult.

She sucked her teeth and glared at him.

She couldn’t look at him for long. He’d died when he was eighteen and hadn’t aged a day past it. Patience was technically older than him, but to see him through anything but the lens of the sixteen year old girl that she’d been was enough to make her feel as if the ground beneath her feet was tilting. 

So they sat instead, their legs stretched out past the curb in front of them.

Her eyes were drawn back to him. On his feet, Patience recognized his favorite pair of white Jordans, trimmed with royal purple with too white laces. They caused a dull throbbing behind her temples. The last time she’d seen those shoes, they’d been suspended from the telephone wire at the intersection of the street he’d lived on, dirty with age.

“Like I said, you can do anything you want,” He continued, picking the dirt from beneath his fingernails. He had the longest nails she’d seen on a man. “It’s yo’ own fault you stuck on this street. That’s something you gotta work out.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” His tone was frank, none of the spite that they’d used to drench each word they shared later in their relationship. “I don’t know how many times I got to tell you, everything is up to you.” He pointed to the end of the street. Beyond it, she knew that if she were to turn the corner, it would simply repeat itself. She knew because she had tried. “If you can’t get nowhere else, it’s because everything you need to think about for now is here.”

He didn’t move when she abruptly stood. A portion of her expected him to grab her wrist, to pull her back into him. Prove to her that she deserved nothing but hell and that his prudent behavior was nothing more than an illusion. Instead, he remained outside even after she returned to the sanctum of her empty home.

Once inside, she immediately wanted to go back out. The house was too still, too quiet. It looked exactly like the one she’d grown up in, but it lacked the subtle details. The floorboards didn’t creak as she walked over the basement. She passed the bathroom, and through the narrow doorway she could see that the mirror was spotless, the sink free of grime. In some sense, she guessed that that was proof that wherever she was, it was some sort of heaven; she couldn’t stand it when it was dirty.

The silence stabbed at her ears.

She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. The table should have rocked on its uneven legs, but it held firm as she leaned onto it’s scarred surface. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear past the void and the house mercifully whispered her memories of her father’s unlabored laughter and Isaiah’s whining back to her.

On January 26th, Emoni Carpenter woke up much later than usual. Broken beams of sunlight burst through the crack in her curtains, frying a patch of skin on the back of her uncovered neck. Outside, somewhere nearby, someone was mowing their lawn. The hum of the mower could have almost been a lullaby were it not accompanied by what she came to realize was an unceasing knocking on her bedroom door.

Colored pencils embedded themselves into the bottoms of her feet as she stood and swore, just barely missing the spiral sketch book she’d haphazardly knocked off of the bed. A half finished eye stared up at her. She exhaled through her nostrils, pushing it aside with her big toe. She’d already put three and a half hours into the drawing, but it was hardly half finished; the outline was there, and she’d started the iris. It was her favorite part, but it was also the most frustrating. She could see where the paper was beginning to strip due to her constant erasing, causing the lines she’d drawn to appear smudged. She bent over to get a close look, pulling her hair back from her face just as it spilled out of the rubber band.

Her heart dropped a little. It wouldn’t be worth it to continue; there was nearly a hole now. She would have to start over on a clean sheet.

“Emoni Alici-”

His face was hard when she opened the door.

She stood in the doorway, her hand protectively on the frame.

He stared at her, the left side of his lips twisted downwards. “You know what I say about locked doors when you stay in this house.” His words were all flowing curves and dips. He turned away from her. “Come down for breakfast.”

She thought about the pencils in her room. She had kicked the metal tray whilst clambering onto her mattress, scattering the pencils all over her floor last night. She had been too tired to pick them up, a decision she decidedly regretted. It had taken hours to find the correct color selection; she remembered the burnt sienna and umber, but those were the only two out of what must’ve been seven or eight pencils. Either they were mixed in with the others or she’d have to turn the room upside down to find them, fitting them back into the tray until she’d found all seventy-two.

Winter break was almost over. Only the first half had been enjoyable; she and Patience had camped out in their shared dorm, going out only to restock on food and alcohol.

Emoni sighed. The kitchen smelled so strongly of oil it made her stomach turn as she took a seat at the kitchen island, slumping over on so that she could stare at her feet over the lip of the bar stool. She wondered what Patience was doing. Still no calls, no returned texts. She was probably enjoying her time with her family. 

 She sighed again and lowered her head as far as she could stand it, breathing in the cleaner air near the ground. Her father gave no indication of having noticed. 

The two said nothing to one another as whatever was in the pan began to sizzle.

Next Chapter: 8