The Boys in the Attic (a short story)

 The Boys in the Attic

    I have found that when time has no meaning, remembering is hard. I know so few things for certain, and I am sure I used to know more. I often repeat these things in my head. I do not want to forget them. My name is Bash, and I was born in 1999. I live in the house at the end of Muerte Street. I loved it when it rained. I cannot leave this place. I liked flowers. I am dead. I had a cat, and I am dead. I say that part twice, so I do not forget it. Although, that one is easier to remember because I have two matching scars on my wrist to remind me. They are the only evidence I have that explains how I wound up here. Some days they burn, but most days I do not feel anything at all. Not just pain either, sometimes I feel nothing at all, other than loneliness. I do not remember my last name. I do not remember how long I have been in this house or my dog's name. Or was it a cat? I can’t remember. I function as a body of emotion now. My feelings are stronger than my memories. I am curious, bored, sad... I am lonely. That one stings the most. No one tells you that about being dead, that if you get caught in that in-between place, you better bring a friend. The loneliness is powerful in a place like this. It shrouds me like a fog, ever-encroaching. It is omnipresent. Somedays, I can’t really observe my surroundings because of the fog. On those days, I just hide in it. On my worst days, I think the living who come and go in my house, feel it too. 

    That’s the only part of this place that brings me any real joy. I get to observe the families that come and go. The first family I remember was the Clarks. Mr. Clark was always away on business. He had a funny way of talking. I could feel how he truly felt, yet he never said it out loud. He often felt inadequate, and he was skilled at hiding it. His wife, Mrs. Clark, drank when her husband was away, but she would tell Mr. Clark that she didn’t. He did not believe her, and he did not let it show. She had many suitors while he was away too. I used to watch them, but I soon grew bored of it. Mrs. Clark would always feel sad after they left. She was not fulfilled. I did not like feeling that, and I did not like the Clarks. Close to the end of their stay in my home, they argued a lot. Their arguing spread chaotic energy and noise throughout the house. They weren't here long. I learned how to mess with the lights while they were here, and I used that to scare them off. I focused my energy enough to flip switches, make lightbulbs burst, turn electronics off and on, and I once started a small electric fire in the kitchen. It brought me a small amount of joy when they would freeze in fear or scream, but the joy was temporary. 

    After the Clarks came the Patels. I liked the Patels. They had three children, all girls. They often wore colorful traditional outfits, and they were always in the kitchen making some type of Indian dish. I liked it when they cooked. The smell of spice would fill the home, and in turn, fill me up. It chased away the lonely fogs that were always threatening to swallow me up. I was sad when they left. I think I scared them away. I had learned a new trick for them. I could focus my energy and project myself into their realm. It took a lot of energy though, and sometimes when I tried to do it the lights would flicker. I was always worn out afterward. This was what led them to leave. On one of their family dinner nights, when the spiced air filled me to the brim, I tried my new trick. I appeared in the kitchen as they were cooking, and that is all it took for them to be gone the next month. With no one to watch and no spices to keep me safe, the lonely fog crept in and swallowed me for a time.

    After the Patels came a weird man that I called Oscar. In his short stay in my home, I do not think I ever saw him smile. He wanted to redo a lot of the home. I heard him call my home a “fixer-upper” and I did not like that. My home is all I have, and I liked it the way I was used to it. I am connected to it. When he would strip a wall or knock out a closet...I would forget more. This was not acceptable. I started messing with his tools after that. This is how I learned to interact with stuff in their world. I tried my best to scare him off. I would move tools, turn them off, hide nails and screws, and slam doors. But in the end, what worked best was a swift bump into his ladder. He had to be taken away by an ambulance, but I was relieved when he finally left.

    The house was empty for a while, and I sank back into the fog. I preferred it empty to bothersome inhabitants. It sat empty for a long time, I think. Time is weird for me. I typically spent my time alone staring out of windows at the neighborhood, trying to remember things about myself. It was during one of these moments, staring out the window, that I saw the Perez family arrive. They pulled in, and I watched them get out from my window. Mr. Perez was a tall slender man with thick black hair and a stern aura about him. He did not carry the look of someone who did manual labor, nor did he carry a smile. His wife got out next. Mrs. Perez was a short woman with a smile. She too had healthy, dark black hair. She carried with her a bright energy that made me wonder how she ended up with Mr. Perez. She smiled enough for both parents. The last to get out was the Perez boy. He was tall and slender. He had inherited a healthy head of hair that cascaded down both sides of his face. He also had a sharp nose. His hazel eyes were framed by bushy black eyebrows. His face boasted a strong jaw, soft pink lips, and warm olive skin.  He was beautiful, and yet I felt sadness following him. This intrigued me. As he stepped towards my home, I felt the lonely clouds that followed me get smaller. I had not felt that before. I was determined to get to know him after that.

    The Perez family wasted no time unpacking. It was quite impressive how efficient they were as a family unit. Within a week everything was where it belonged. I was busy too. Busy listening mostly. I observed information about the new family in my house. Quickly, I learned that Mrs. Perez went by Maria, and she talked about gardening a lot. She planned to turn the yard into a beautiful collection of flowering bushes. Her favorite flower was the rose. Mr. Perez was called Jose, and he only talked about work. He was a doctor, and he was often followed by a cloud of stress. He was not home very much. Miguel was the beautiful boy who now inhabited my old room. I remembered that when he moved in. My room had been in the attic. Mostly because I loved the big round window that faced the yard. The one I first saw him through. I used to read under it. I remembered this too, after Miguel moved in. Remembering got easier after Miguel moved in. Like me, Miguel liked to read. He liked alternative rock, rom-coms, and he always picked the olives off his pizza. He took long showers. He stayed up late. I spent most of my time observing only him. When I was around him, the lonely fog seemed to dissipate. 

    As time went by, I learned even more about Miguel. I learned that he got good grades, but he was anxious about his future. I know this because I sensed his anxiety when his parents talked about college and life planning with him. I also know that he journaled every night. This is how I got to know him most. I probably shouldn’t have spied on him while he wrote, but he made me feel the most alive I had felt since...well, I do not know when I got here. I learned that he liked boys and girls, and that he was not sure if his parents would accept that. I also learned that he felt lonely often. When he wrote about this, I wanted to hug him the most. I have not really learned to embrace the living yet, but I was working on it. I wanted to hug the lonely boy. I wanted to chase away his lonely fog the way he did mine. 

…

    The more I learned about Miguel the more I felt connected to him. He and Mr. Perez did not talk much. However, Miguel and Mrs. Perez were very close. They did many things together. I spent many movie nights in the living room with them. They liked comedy movies the most. Miguel's laugh was a loud, joyous one. I liked hearing it. I did not see him smile or laugh often, so I appreciated it when I did. On summer days, I watched him help his mother do yard work. If I was lucky, he would take his shirt off. His skin grew darker in the summer, and that I liked the most. He was not at all like me. I remember I was pale and even more so now that I was dead. I was jealous he got to feel the sun on his skin, but I settled for watching in the window. They did a great job turning the yard into a place full of color. They had even planted new rose bushes. The blooms were a deep red and like Miguel, beautiful. He often picked bouquets of roses for his room. I liked looking at them when no one was at home to observe. Sometimes he would prick his finger while picking them. I forgot what pain felt like, but I felt it through him. The blood from his finger entranced me, and in those moments, I could feel my wrists burn. I could remember the pain of my coming here when he would bleed. It made me ponder what my blood looked like when I created my matching scars. I never wanted him to feel pain, not like that.

    Being alone was harder the longer they lived in my house. I followed Miguel everywhere when he was home. I wondered if he ever felt my energy following him. I was working on my new trick. I was going to hug him, and I tried a lot. I swear one time he felt me. He was at his desk writing when I almost succeeded, he even stood up quickly and surveyed his room, as if looking for something. Perhaps looking for me. As time went on, I felt the sadness I first noticed in Miguel grow. I could not tell why it grew. Mrs. Perez did not seem to notice. At times, I wondered if it was my fault. I would quickly banish myself if I ever felt my fogs start to creep up on him. However, it grew harder to leave his side. I wanted to just hug him. I knew that if I did, I could take his sadness from him. I could hold it for him. I would hear his laugh more...If I could just hug him. I hated seeing this beautiful boy carry the same fog I did. 

    It was an overcast day when I finally hugged Miguel. Mrs. Perez was gardening; Mr. Perez was at work. This was normal. However, Miquel was in his room. Crying. His sadness had gotten worse in the last few weeks. I think it was weeks. Time is different for me. He would spend whole days in bed, and he would write less. I hated it when he wouldn’t write. His writing is how I got to know him. When I finally hugged him, he was standing in front of the big circular window in our room.  He was looking at his mother in the garden. I do not know what came over me, but I felt empowered to hug him. I could feel his energy. It was heavy and sad...but emotionally charged. I used it like a battery, and it gave me strength. I can take his sadness away, I thought. I wanted so badly to hug him. I used all my power to try to appear for him, but he did not see. I wanted to hug him. The lights flickered, the energy I had bubbled over, and I rushed towards him. I did it! I finally hugged him. For a second, I felt his warm skin, his heart beating, and the smell of his hair, which I now know smells like coconut-scented shampoo. I tried so hard to hold onto him, but I must have overdone it. My energetic rush became physical, much more than I expected it to. I just wanted to hug him, but I pushed him. He crashed through the big round window. I heard the thuds he made as he tumbled down the roof with a “thud, thud, thud”. I froze when I heard the “splat” he made when he hit the sidewalk that led to our front door. I will never forget the scream Mrs. Perez made. She was tending to the rose bushes when Miguel fell from the sky. I almost faded away when I heard his final gasp of air. I felt the fog come for me so quickly. It was like his final breath swallowed me back into the timelessness of the lonely realms of fog. 

…

    I know so few things for certain. I must repeat these things in my head so that I do not forget them. My name is Bash, and I was born in 1999. I live in the house at the end of Muerte Street. I loved it when it rained. I cannot leave this place. I like roses, and I am dead. I had a cat, or was it a dog? I am not alone. I am with Miguel, and he is dead. He does not remember many things either. I tell him he likes roses, and that I like him. I try to help him remember, and in return, he valiantly defends me from the fog. I tell him about previous inhabitants, taking special care to leave out his family. Mostly because I do not want him to be sad again, but also because I do not want him to remember everything. I am not lonely now, thanks to Miguel. From him, I learned my biggest trick. He taught me there is no need to be lonely, not when I can bring the living into my realm.