Chapter 3: A Hole

3
A Hole

Four years ago, June 4^th, at 9:16 pm, 13-year-old Savvy Burns stands in line for the check out.  He has exactly 11 minutes left of his life.  And he doesn’t know it.

Where did he think he would die?  What’s the last thing he thought he would see?  Perhaps a hospital.  Friends gathered all around.  Flowers.  Love.  Tears.  Hugs.
Perhaps that’s why death takes people by surprise.  Sometimes, it’s not in a hospital.  Sometimes it’s somewhere death isn’t supposed to be, like behind a convenience store.  Sometimes you’re alone when it comes.  There are no flowers.  No love.  You just die.  The end.

There are only three souls in this store.  The middle-aged cashier lady, the young man with the thick, alcohol scented breath, and the skinny, part Hispanic boy with the blind right eye.  In precisely four minutes, the young man is going to shoot Savvy.  In exactly nine minutes, Savvy will be dead.

Savvy pays for his water bottle, shoves his wallet into the abyss of his sweatpants pocket, and starts for the glass doors.  He is followed.  If he walked a little faster, could he have avoided his death?

9:17 pm.
Instead of walking straight through the parking lot, Savvy cuts around the corner of the store.  Was he hoping to mislead his follower?  He speed-walks through the alleyway.  A stinging white light protrudes from the side of the store wall.  The other wall is only a brick structure as tall as him.  He jumps, grabbing the top of the wall, the jagged brick bites into his bare arm that holds his water bottle.  He pulls himself up to his stomach.

9:18 pm.
A fist clenches the hood of his jacket, and jerks.  Savvy falls back to his feet and looks behind him.
A gun stares him in the face.  It’s small and black.  But not to Savvy.  To Savvy, it’s a cannon.
“Give me your money,” the voice behind cannon demands.  “Give me your wallet. Give me your wallet!”

The human repeats that sentence too many times for Savvy to keep track, and the more he says it, the more spit he uses in his words, the less interpretable the words become. 

Wallet.  What’s a wallet?

“Give me your wallet!”  the gun screams.  Or the man.  “I’ll shoot you!”

“Don’t shoot me,” Savvy hears his voice break from his dry mouth.  His mind pleads.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die.  Please let me live.  Please let me live.

9:19 pm.

Life never seemed so wonderful.  He never wanted it more than he did then.

Help.  He needs help.  He wants Domino.  Or even his Mom.  This was the first time he has ever wanted his Mom beside him.

Police.

Call the police.

“I’ll shoot you!”

“Okay-okay-okay-okay-” Savvy’s breath is lost, his voice drifts, and he reaches into his pocket.  The left pocket.  His hands tremble, uncontrollable, but grabs his phone, and raises it to his ear.

9:20 pm.

‘Click-BANG!’

He hears his chest rip open, and it keeps taring wider and wider. As though a tube embeds through his chest and expands.  The explosion still filters through his numb head.
His every muscle like stone.  His lungs frozen.  Then his muscles betray him, and he falls.  He is caught by a cement ground, leaving him with nothing but shaking limbs and a poison that spreads from his chest up his neck, shoulders, and legs.

Hands.  Hands dig into pants pocket.  They grab his wrists and yank.  Savvy tries to scream through his teeth, but screaming hurts.

He’s left behind the dumpster, laying on his back.

The footsteps shuffle away into nothingness.

9:21 pm.

He watches the fluttering shadows of moth wings dance in the humming light.  He could still smell the smoke.  The alcohol breath. Still feel.  Still see.  How is he still alive?  How is his mind still sending information to his senses while screaming at the same time, “There’s a hole in my chest-there’s a hole in my chest-there’s a hole in my chest...”

Phone.

He forces his arm to move, sliding along the  sticky, moist ground.  Phone.  Phone.  Please may there be a phone.

His fingers touch smooth glass.  The glass reads:

9:22 pm.

He found it!  His dying spirits leap, the corners of his mouth pull into a smile.  He wraps his fingers around the phone.  A cold bolt of pain shoots through him.  He cries, and types.  His eyes closed tight.  He doesn’t have to see the screen to know what numbers his thumb taps.  It’s all muscle memory.

He should have called 911.  He really should have.

He doesn’t.

He types the number he knows best.

Slowly.  Carefully.  Eyes still shut.  Not breathing.  He lifts the phone to his face, sets it beside him and leans his head over the cracked screen.

Beeep….Beeep…

Answer it.  For crying out loud-just answer it.  Domino, don’t let Savvy die like this.

Every beep wastes two heart beats. 

9:23 pm.

Then Domino finally picks up the phone.  He could have answered it sooner.  He could have had more time.  Maybe if Domino answered the phone sooner, things would be different.

“Yo.”

“Hi Domino.”

“Hay.  What’s up?”

“I…”  maybe Savvy shouldn’t say it.  He didn’t want to tell him.  He just wanted to talk.  Talk like this wasn’t their last conversation.  Just talk Domino.  For once in your stupid life-just talk.

“You what?  I think you’re breaking up.  Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you.”

“You sound sick.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you have?”

“I got…Uh-got…shot.” His words don’t sound right.  No, they can’t be right.  Getting shot is something that only happens behind a TV, or in a game of poison-dart frog.

“…Savvy?” 

It hurt too much.

“Savvy?...What happened?  What did you say?  Savvy!  Start talking!”  Domino yells.

Savvy opens his mouth, the pain restrains him, but he pries out the words, “I got shot.”

“Wait, what?-You’re shot-are you shot?  With-a-with gun?  Savvy!”  He cusses and screams, “You’re shot?  Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re messing with me Savvy, I’ll shoot myself!”

“No-no-no-no-Domino-”

“Where did you get shot!?”

Savvy’s eyes dart down to ground.  The hard, but warm ground.  Warm with…Him.  No.  That’s not his blood.  It’s too dark.  Too much…it touches the side of the wall and slowly trickles under the dumpster.

“In the chest…A little lower…I think…It hurts Domino-it hurts-it hurts-I can’t-”

“It’s-”  The broken breathing on the other end of the phone interrupts his sentence, “It’s okay.”

A breath. “It’s okay, Savvy.  The doctors will take care of you.  It’s okay, just keep breathing-”

Savvy’s muscles finally stop shaking.  He stares at the shadows on the cement wall.

“Yeah.  The doctors…The doctors’ll take care of me.”

“Oh…Oh no, no, no.” A pause.  “Where are you?” Domino demands.

Savvy just stares.

“Call 911.  Hang up right now and call 911.”

But he doesn’t answer.  He just listens.

“Do you hear me!?  Call 911!  Do it right now or I’ll hang up on you-”

“Don’t hang up on me!”  Savvy screams.  His throat burns and the walls blur.

The breathing on the other end of the phone is raspy, off rhythm. 

“Where are you Savvy?  I’m gonna come get you.  I’m coming right now.  Where are you?”

“You’re on vacation,” Savvy whispered.

“I don’t care.  We’re going right now to find you.  Just stay there.  Where are you?”

“The alley behind the store.  It’s nice and warm here.” The pain numbs, and he smiles.  His words slur, but he used them. “How’s weather over there?”

It took several seconds before the broken reply, “It’s nice here.  It’s…Really nice here, Savvy.”

9:26 pm.

“Good.  I guess...I’ll see you…When you get back.  Domino.”

“Okay, yeah.  We’ll do that.”

“We’ll…hang out…at your house.”

“Sure.  We’ll-we’ll meet at my house…Sounds good.”

“Domino?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.  I feel better now.”

“Okay….Savvy?.....Hay, Savvy?.....Savvy?”

9:27 pm.

Chapter 2: A Body Guard

2
A Body Guard

The cars that hiss past leave a thin, wet breathe of air in my face.  Pumpkins and ornaments of monsters and corpses clutter the shop windows and door steps.  Why do we celebrate death, I wonder?  I used to love this time of year.  I suppose it’s easy to laugh about death when death has no meaning to you.
The gray mornings grow a deep orange since October rolled around.  I hate the color orange.  I miss the gray mornings.  I blend in with gray like a relative.  Now leaves float down covering the dull cracked sidewalk and crunching under my converse, like obnoxious children calling out when they find a creature in the shadows.  I want to hide.
I step to the rhythm of the drums that pulse through my head phones.  It keeps me from thinking.  Thinking.  What rhymes with thinking?  Blinking…Linking…Sinking…
I hate poets.  Poets take the weather and nature too seriously, or make creepy comparisons to leaves and obnoxious children. 
I slow down, the beat picks up momentum.  I put the music on pause and stick my phone back in my damp hoodie pocket.

She walks a few feet in front of me, her back turned.  The large man who  just speeds past me a few seconds ago now brushes past her, their shoulders almost collide.  Idiot.  Doesn’t even look back.  She teeters slightly on her prosthetic legs, grabbing her faded white fence for support.

She’s waiting for me.  She always waits for me.  Not because she enjoys my company--I don’t enjoy hers either.  But perhaps simply because I’m always here.  It’s my job. 

I’m her bodyguard.  I don’t get payed for this.  I wasn’t commissioned.  This is my hobby.  Just like being a parent or a husband, there is no logical reason why anyone would want to be either of those things.  You don’t get payed to do it, yet, it’s still a job.

The back of her pink beanie is tilted up. She’s looking at the sky.  I take longer strides. I should reach her before she runs into a lamppost.  Now she’s close enough to touch.  I don’t.  There is a force between me and the short blond human being, like the negative-negative of two magnets. 
“Morning, Domino!”  Her slightly cracked, cheery voice.
“Morning, Qym.”

We proceed along the walkway that is just wide enough for us to stand at a comfortable distance.  That if I take one misstep with my left foot, I’d step into the road.  Then I’d match the corpse decorations.  I’d make a lovely corpse decoration. 

The absence of music through my headphones is filled with the sigh of cars passing, honking, screeching, reverberating bass, and the occasional insult from a gaping window.  And, of course, hum of Qym’s mechanical knee joints bending as she walks.  Qym has been legless for over a year now.  I’ve been her bodyguard for same amount of time.
I hate Qym.
“You happy it’s Friday?”  She asks.

Reason Why I Hate Qym #1:  She tries to make me talk.  And it’s in her presence when I wish to remain most silent.

I hum my reply.  Small talk makes me nauseous.  I fight the constricting in my stomach for whatever social skills I’ve attained, and return the question.
“You happy it’s Friday?”

She takes a deep breath, “Oh, gosh, yes.  Actually, I like work, but-” her words falter, she pushes her plastic rimmed glasses farther up her freckled nose. “I never thought I’d say this, but I kinda miss school, ya know?”
No.  I don’t know.
I try to think of something clever to say besides, “Yeah,” but words don’t fit together.
“…Yeah.”
Why is it so much easier for words to fit together into poems that rhyme than it is to speak them?

Past her street, after bridge, we pause before the intersection.  Wait for the cars to come to a stop, and grab each other’s hands. 

I don’t hold hands with people.  Only Qym.  And only when we cross the road.
We walk across, me a little in front, dragging her slightly as she struggles to keep up on her stiff, make-shift legs.
We pause on the median, still gripping hands, wait for an obnoxious truck to make a turn in front of us, and proceed.  This is a part of our everyday routine—my job.  It started the day I became her bodyguard.  I pretend my arm doesn’t shake, my heart doesn’t go sick, while she just stares at the sky. 
We reach the other side and release our grip.  I stick my hand back into the safety of my pocket.
 

Reason Why I Hate Qym #2:  I hate my job

The graveyard to our left is barely seen through the dead vines tangled through the rusted wire fence.  This isn’t a Halloween decoration, and no Halloween decoration’s line the gate.  Perhaps people think death is only funny when it’s plastic and inflatable. 

The large, immaculate marble stones and weeping sculptures are sectioned off from the smaller, more rustic slabs of rock.  Like that one closest to the gate, a mere square slab that barely reaches above the shriveled, overgrown grass.  With a name on a gold plaque.  Savvy Sylvester Burns.  And two dates.  Two dates whose times are much too close.  No inspiring quote, no “Beloved Son and Friend,” no “You Will be Missed” or even a “Rest In Peace.”  I bet I could have written his epitaph.  He would have liked that.

The little stone watches me as we pass.  I feel the pressure of its gaze, as though it has eyes.  I look away.  He wants me to talk to him.  Always wanting me talk to him.  I never do.  He should be satisfied with me having to pass his cursed grave site every cursed morning.  For four years.  What would we talk about anyway?  Life?

“See ya, Domino!”  She parts to the left, behind the café.  I keep walking.
“See ya.” I keep walking, until I know she’s disappeared into the ally between the two buildings, to the “Employee’s Only” door.  Then I look back.

She isn’t attacked, all is well, and now I have to put my job on hold.

Reason Why I Hate Qym #3:  She has a strong instinct beyond all human capability to get herself hurt.

Domino Intro: I'm A Liar

I have a friend named Domino who accompanies me on my long 2 hour car drives in the day.  He doesn't say much.  Typically he just sits there in silence.  But every now and then he will speak, and every time he does, I interrupt him with; "Sorry friend, I don't have time for you today."  So he'll shrug and look back out the window.
I'll admit, I'm not much of a friend, blabbering on about my own life for my entire car rides and not even letting him say a few words about his life.

A year ago, I made a blog post titled: Domino Duel.  I wrote it about 3 months after I lost my story about him, right after the worst day of my life.  What I experienced turned into a foot hold for my story, a jolt of understanding that pulled me back onto my feet and into my daily word hacking.

This year, particularly this summer, I've slaved over this story with more vigor then any other novel I've written.  I even went on a road trip, taking many pictures and notes on settings that looked exactly like how I wanted my book's setting to appear. 
And I'm not done.  I'm on my second year of babysitting this cranky 17 year old emo child and I still have a long way's to go.

Domino, let me make something very clear.  You're annoying.  You're like a bread mix that refuses to cook right, remaining a thick mound of goop.  By the end of this book, you have to change.  I'm not saying you have to change from a brownie mix to angle fruit cake mix, I'm saying you gotta change from batter to bread.  From unreal to real.  From dead to alive.  (Which, according to your plot, means quite literally).  But not just literally.  I want you to change as a person.  I want you to stop being such a butt and start noticing some beauty for once.

Another thing I want to make clear.  I often wonder why I continue writing you.  I love you.  I know you think that's mushy, and I know every writer's book is their baby, but it's true.  I love you so much and I treasure my time with you.  You've been there for me as much as I have been there for you.  You've helped me as a character as much as I've helped you as a character.
Not only you, but I also love Qym.  I love Savvy.  I love your Mom.  I love Rue.  I love the whole lot of you.  I've found more and more how each of you are much like people I know and treasure in real life.

So I've decided, (As long as I don't periodically make these rambles of sentimental baloney) that for Domino, I will publish a chapter a day on my blog.  It's the least I can do.  At least for this month of November.
Heads up #1:  The Chapters are extremely short.  Don't judge me.
Heads up #2:  This story has a heavy theme and has some dark/gory elements to it.  Please don't read if you're sensitive to that.
Heads up #3:  (This is every writers favorite heads up before sharing their work) You may find many grammatical and spelling errors.  I've been afraid to share my work for several reasons, one being the time when I accidentally spelled "Raped" instead of "Rapid."
Heads up #4:  Okay yeah you can judge me.  If you would be so kind as to reply and send me critiques and feed back, that would be most appreciated.  Otherwise, just enjoy.

1
A Liar

I’m a liar. 
Lying is good for the soul, it amplifies the truth.  Whatever truth is.

I wish I could begin without wasting time.  I wish I could begin with something like, “Marley was dead.”  Cut straight to the point. 

I can’t. 

If the opening words to this book were; “Domino was dead,” you would put the book down.  Because that would be a lie. 

Art Dump

Perhaps one day I'll know how to make a decently entertaining/not corny post on "what I did this summer."  Not to say it wasn't interesting.  It was.  But just the thought of a post titled "What I did this Summer" makes me feel like I'm making a pre-school report.  And I'm pretending to be an adult.  I did very adulty things this summer.  Like draw pictures.

Experimenting with black paper and colored pencils.

I was actually not in a bad mood this day.  I just didn't use the right skin tone/facial expression so therefore it turned out creepy.  (The story of my life).

Long story short, it was a ruff day.  (You can ask me later).  My method of making peace with that moment was to make a funny cartoon of it.  So now I when I look back on that day, instead of thinking of the terror, I can think of the cartoon and feel a little better.

This picture is titled:  "Hm."  Can "hm" be a mood?  Perhaps I just ran out of creativity when it comes to describing feelings, but I have so many "hm" moments.  But when someone asks how you're doing and you reply with, "Hm." It's rude.  I know I get annoyed when people give that kind of reply.  But if "hm" was an official term, it wouldn't rude, it would just be truthful, right?

This my friend Sarah Beth.  Happy Birthday!
Gosh, don't you just hate it when people can be so cute?

Dr. Elemis Pott in her most typical state of mind.  I drew this after me and my Bro's car broke down in Nebraska on the last
stages of our road trip.

I'm not proud of how this picture turned out.  But it's of Torry Martin.
And I love Torry Martin.  (Look him up). 
I had the honor of getting to speak with him
at my writers camp this summer, which may be my biggest
highlight of this summer.  (And there was a cat in this picture.  So...)

On the road trip, I felt the sudden urge to play my violin.  I was attempting to depict the kind of therapeutic peace I feel when Im playing. 

This picture seemed really cool when I drew it.  It's significantly less original looking as I re-observe it in Starbucks.

Don't draw the person at the table next to you in a coffee shop.  It's rude, disrespectful, and awkward.
This is a picture I drew of the guy in the table next to mine at a Starbucks in Canada.

Whinny the Pooh has reserved a very special seat of honor in my heart.  Where I fail to express in words, I try to make up in drawing.

I don't draw romantic things.  Romance is for twips.  (A twip is a twirp, only more annoying).  This is a KINDNESS scene.  I think we could use more kindness scenes in life. 

Ice Age was an amazing movie.  The first Ice Age.  The only Ice Age.

This is my friend Mary.  I love her with all my heart.

I didn't expect this character to have facial hair when I made him.  But I guess he wanted it.  Sometimes you can't control these things.  I wonder if this is a frequent observation made by mothers.

I was in the air port on my way back to Colorado from Kansas.  The air port was swarming with kids.  I don't know why.  Life is weird.  But they were cute. 

My Mom got me a black drawing pad with fancy pens.  It's so shiny.  Imagine my excitement when instead of making a stroke on a page and creating  a dark line, it creates light.  The reverse effect is dope.

Sometimes I will begin to draw something typical, like a face, and instead of erasing I'll roll with the mistakes I make as I go, and as all of the mistakes pile up, it turns into a picture that is much more interesting then  my original plan.  Maybe don't make this your new philosophy for life, but try it sometime.  

These are some dudes.  Someone on our trip to Ecuador got this picture while giving drumming lessons.  And I thought; "Look.  It's a bunch of cool dudes.  I'm gonna draw this."   I'm sure there is some deep meaning behind this.

This is my friend Stephen.  Stephan is a punk.  But we can forgive him.

This is an illustration from "Dog and Red."  A short kids story by my friend Daniel about a dog and a cricket.  This picture is a scene in which the two attempt to navigate through a city with a swimming pool on Dog's head.

While I can still say I'm a teenager, I will use that as a valid excuse for mood swings.  But people can use just about anything as a mood swing excuse.  "I'm a girl."  "I'm a boy."  "I'm 3 years old."  "I'm going through a middle aged crisis."  "I'm young."  "I'm old."  "My life is too eventful."  "I don't have a life."  Can we settle with just saying, "Humans are emotional?"

Sometimes it's a blessing when I realize I've left the house without my pencils.  It forces me to be more creative.  For example,  it's forced me to start drawing with a pen and I've discovered that I enjoy it.  This is a gift for my friend Shadow.

I painted space.  On my face.  Space face.  That sounded a lot more clever in my head.

Here's one of the only paintings I've done this summer.  A gift to my friend Luke.

Character of the Month: GMC

I'm 11, in my first play and I'm drawing backstage.  GMC sit's next to me and asks me what I'm drawing, and tells me of his love for cartoons and comics.

GMC after busting his eye while rock climbing. 
We shouldn't look so joyful.

GMC, (Grand Master Calzadilla) is a cool dude.  About 8 years ago I met this guy at a homeschool group.  He came in towing an arm full of siblings with him.  A big smile on his face. 
He became one of my first friends after moving to America.  Then he became my adopted bro.  When I met him, he was a tall, happy, chill guy.
Absolutely nothing has changed.  I've been through all sorts of weird fazes through the years.  People around me go through all sorts of weird fazes.  But GMC has always stayed the same. 
I think everybody needs a friend like him in their life. People are talented at being worried, but GMC can find a light at the end of any tunnel.  He doesn't have to sugar coat anything.  If you want an honest opinion, he will give you one.  But I don't know a lot of people who can be positive and real at the same time.

And I don't like it when my bros have to move.  Or perhaps I'm just being a Mother.
But thanks for everything, my friend.  Have more fabulous adventures!

Art by: GMC (of me in my many zones)

Andrew is GMC's code name