Bleak walls greeted my eyes at every turn. Each hallway and set of double doors were more placeless than the last. Beige were the bricks and borders and floors and doors, all various shades of brown. The hallways were windowless too, the lights above aglow as I followed June. For once, I wished I could peer through a window, Even if trademark winter winds weren't as prevalent here, the winds warmer and humidity higher, I wish I could stare out at the dark December sky.

Midnight... the morning after the twenty fourth of December.

It was Christmas.

Stopping, I gripped my somehow still intact backpack, one Mathew must have drug through whatever monstrosity brought us here and other hallways. Morgan's bag rested on Mathew's shoulders, a huge rip at the side. Somehow, the contents remained in.

Christmas?

I blinked, hoping a small tree would fill my vision, that the white string lights would wrap me in a hug. The thought stayed in my head. There were no trees here, nothing red or green in sight. Nothing festive.

"Y'all can wait in here." The voice snapped the sound back into my ears, buzzing and beeping in the background. My brain's fumbling motions didn't cease the brunette's speech. "We will call you both back as soon as possible. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be checkin' in every so often too."

A single click resounded in my ears. There were other noises, but no amount of concentration could lend my ears to the call of other voices, other clicks, other anything. Except, a flash of color, galaxy blue streaking across the room, badge jiggling like makeshift bells. This was Christmas. Hums drifted up softly, nearly silent in the blanket of brown misery, like a carol. Long streams of brown padded chairs were like ornaments upon the entirely brown tree, the room. The people zipping about or sitting stagnant were a short relief, mere decorations.

"Are you even... You're not listening." Mathew shook his head, his back to me, Morgan's pack sliding from his shoulders. "It doesn't matter." His voice held a bite, a familiar sound I couldn't place.

When Mathew turned around, he was grinning like a star.

My jaw ticked. "Just say it."

"It doesn't change anything."

Then why bother before? I clenched my jaw, sealing the words in. Instead, I smiled, stamping the vine slithering at my feet. "I would still like to hear what you were going to say."

The star dimmed, and Mathew froze before my eyes. He blinked rapidly, as if awakening himself. "It... I was saying something about—You don't remember anything before we crashed?"

"No." I dropped my bag upon the approaching entanglement of cords, green. What does amnesia mean to you? "You can say what you want. It's okay."

I smiled, again. The attempt felt more convincing.

"I called Cole. He's worried and might fly down." Mathew closed his eyes, a beam stuck in his face, though his voice was strained. "He's always been such a worry wart. Rightfully so, usually. When it came to you guys, especially, no matter who or what..."

"Your phone survived?" I hesitated, clarifying as if he needed it, the extra push, "In the crash?"

"I used a phone here—behind one of the desks." Mathew faced me, brown eyes gleaming and hands trembling. That last part, a quality I wasn't supposed to note or the quick placement of the said hands in pockets. "Your phone was in your bag? It might have been fine."

The bright side. At least the phone was okay. At least I still had my backpack and Morgan had his. At least I could still remember my name. All were the effect of shoddy condolences and even lesser hopes, ones I didn't want to listen to. That was the present situation, not the future of possible incoming memories or when I was allowed to see Morgan.

It was a crash.

A crash at the strike of midnight, pitch black night and even blacker spirits left to wonder the brown paned jail.

I closed my eyes, zooming closer to the scene, but I wasn't there. A third person perspective wrought my vision in invisible bars. My bleach hair rustled occasionally with every turn of my head, adjusting to the heat fanning my face and feet. The jacket I had yet to see an inkling of was around my shoulder, my hands tucked inside.

Reading to my backpack, I lifted the item off the brown, holding my breath.

An orange blanket rested on top.

I turned the bag away from Mathew's peeping eyes and dug.

Shoulders dragging in their demise, I zipped the backpack close, returning empty handed. Though, my phone appeared a live and my other belongings were intact and undisturbed. No effort came to the controlled aim, exterminating weeds, vine that choked victims, the weakest point reached. Optimal peaks of desperation aren't hard to come by, after all. Likewise, mango smoothies aren't hard to covet.

"He's a good kid," Mathew whispered, gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the brown sky. "It would be cruel to just..."

"Cruel to just, what?" I shot back.

I didn't want the answer, but I couldn't predict the future. I should have stopped listening, retreated, tasted the mango smoothie on my lips, relished the sweetness. I didn't. I heard, I thought, and I paid the inevitable price, for better or worse.

"He's struggling and hasn't woken up. They won't let us in there... can't be doing too hot." Mathew wouldn't meet my eyes. "I wish I was the one in there instead."

The hair on my arms pricked, and I patted his back, abet, awkwardly. "No one deserves that."

He didn't answer, but I could have sworn he mouthed "I do", never removing his eyes from the light above his head, an unmoving block.

Silence slithered between us.

I keep my bag close. The orange blanket was a plush blotch hidden away, but I could feel the squish of the cover beneath my wringing fingers, the backpack a new form of stress release. If Dad were the parent beside me, I would have pulled the thing out, tossed it over us, and tried to sleep, letting time pass without notice. I didn't have the will to sleep or Dad with me.

Restless shifting beside me caught the barest of my attention, my fingers loose around my bag and my brain far away from Jersey. Mathew jerked his head in different directions, his eyes darting for sight to sight like a hummingbird about a flower.

Swallowing hard, I attempted to ignore the beating wind and obnoxious chirps stalling the workings of my brain. Still the words soared through, cutting the blast into a soft steady stream.

No one deserves that. I heard my voice loud and clear. My head, repitition's safe space.

Mathew's words were a resounding gush, just as clear but more distant, harder to picture. I do.

What does no one mean to him? It's just that, no one. Or, it should be. Why would anyone want to be hit like that? Hit anyone like that? I wouldn't do it, not even with Mathew. It's cruel. Wishing yourself gone like that, why? I could neve wish someone dead. Impossible. It's too much of a struggle, something else to wrestle with, to decide whether I gave the right punch or not. But why would anyone want to struggle? Isn't it easier to just not?

I was imagining what Mathew "said". He didn't say anything. Why would he? It's just that. He ain't that type of person. He's the guy that abandoned us, the guy I should have never hugged so often, laughed so hard with, or given so many secrets to. Pop was gone. I had to remember, keep the cold of his face up front, hear all that had happened. How Dad had ushered Morgan and I to the car, telling me to lock the door. Pop had stood at the porch. The wide oak had shielded his eyes. Dad's hands had been slinging in all directions, his words moving at that rampant speed, and Pop had stared blankly. Not a breeze of life had pulsed through his features, told me the guy was alive.

That was the last moment I was home, the last week I was in Georgia, the last ever I had Pop.

"It's my fault." Mathew held his head in his hands, leaned forward, elbows in his knees. "I shouldn't have let everything get to me. I should have noticed."

Are you insane or something? What in blue blazes are you talking about? Again, I compressed the words, spinning a new phrase under the buzzing lights. "What do you mean?"

"I should have noticed—" He stopped himself, and for the briefest second, I felt a long dead nickname surface. Maybe I hadn't killed it, but the thing hadn't been tended to, for sure. Continuing, he rubbed his face continually, "I should have noticed, Oren. Should have seen it all..."

"Seen what?" I asked.

"It's..."

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing came from Mathew's mouth. Words were non-existent for him, something choking the exit into exile. Dad would have said it, spit the flaming ball into the forest, adorning a straight face and eyes with a greater untold story.

Sighing, I placed my bag at my feet. In all my fourteen years of life, I hadn't mustered such a vigor in my voice, not pleading but a command weighed with the burden of my memory. "Tell me. If you think I can't handle it, I can. Don't worry. I've learned a few things."

Mathew flinched. "I know you can. It's... me."

If I had Dad/s patience, my features would have been smoothe, unaffected by the circles and the chasing of sunlight. "Go ahead," I said, shoulders tense.

"Morgan didn't have his seatbelt on, flew into the window, and..." Talc skin gleaming with a new breath of water, Mathew stood quickly. "I'm going to get some drinks, okay?"

Flew into the window.

He went out the window.

How high did he fall?

Amnesia didn't claim the words burning in the back of my brain. Plane traffic blurred in my eyes, Mathew's retreating footsteps mincing with others and the crunch of peanuts.

_________

Chapter Word Count: 1,716
Total Word Count: 9,115