Chapter 1

A Chapter by ReadWriteTeach

Peter is introduced.

The old man jumped off the bridge… again.

There are things in life you would think you could never grow accustomed to. The taste of orange juice after brushing your teeth, the short-lived but traumatic pain in your brain when your excitement for ice cream outweighs your better judgment, and the cliche but relatable skin prickle that comes with the sound of nails on a chalkboard. One might assume that witnessing attempted suicide would also be a continuously cringe worthy event. And one would be wrong.

At fourteen years old, I stand on the bridge that overlooks the Great Miami River and stare at the lifeless body that lies in the murky water below, completely unaffected by what I have just witnessed… again.

Like a ritual, the old man dumps himself into the caliginous depths beneath me every Sunday at 11:00am. He is not rushed, and he performs the task without pomp or circumstance. No crowd gathers. No passersby, aside from the occasional traveler, attempt to deter him from his pursuit. No one stops -- except me.

Every Sunday I too come to the bridge at 11:00am, to gaze in wonderment at the old man. I watch and marvel at the ease and calm with which he removes his brown suede shoes. Always removes his shoes. He has taken note of my presence on only a handful of occasions, once mumbling a few coarse words about the importance of a good pair of shoes because “one never knows where he might end up and there could be a great deal of walking there.” And then he mounts the railing, pauses only long enough to glance up at the hot sun beginning to assume its position straight overhead, releases a deep sigh, and plummets.

Every Sunday at 11:00 when families exit the polished doors of the local churches and enter cozy restaurants with thick padded booths to chatter about Johnny’s recent baseball game and Suzy’s cookie sales, I witness an old man take his own life.

And every Sunday at 11:02, I watch him rise from his would-be foul aquatic coffin, release a string of violent vituperations at the world, and calmly return to fetch his shoes.

It hasn’t always been this way - people casting themselves off bridges - but it has become a fairly regular occurrence since the [Perennials] began appearing in our town. People with no regard or respect for life, just throwing it away because of its yo yo-like quality. It always seems to come back to these people whether they want it or not - and much of the time they don’t, hence the bridge situation. I guess when you know you’re going to just keep living, death isn’t something to be feared or even avoided. And life is something that can be taken for granted.

Not everyone here is that way though, indefinitely regenerating after two minutes of death. Most of the people are limited, part of the group known as the [Finite]. They have the ability to return only four times before their ultimate disappearance from this earth. As you might imagine, tension runs high between the two groups. Some Perennials keep their status a secret, for fear of jealous Finites seeking them out for harm. You may not be able to actually take a Perennial out of existence, but you can torture them until they wish you could. Other Perennials flaunt their abilities, performing dangerous stunts, always trying to outdo one another for the most death defying - or seeking - antics.

Finites aren’t always so different. There are those who hoard their five lives, afraid of relinquishing one in an adrenaline rush that he might regret losing later when he needs it by accident. Then there are those Finite who, like the daredevil Perennials, are willing to throw a few lives away for the sake of alpha status.

At school we are divided. Not by the institution, but ourselves. Among the Finite, status is a tricky thing. If you have all of your lives, you’re a prude, an overly cautious coward. If you have only one or two lives left, you’re reckless and unappreciative of life. Three seems like it would be a safe number of lives to have, aside from the appearance of being wishy-washy and unable to decide which end of the spectrum you want to be on. Either way, you are categorized. Though categories are in constant flux, depending on which challenge was accepted by a five-lifer that morning, they are an integral part of life these days.

“Pete!” A familiar voice down the street snaps me out of my musings and, looking up from my worn out high tops on the cracked pavement, I realize I have walked much farther than I planned. That is, if I had a plan, which would be a rare occurrence for me. I look up at Ben, legs and arms a mile long pumping him down the street. “Dude, you didn’t seriously come watch that old geezer again, did you? It’s getting kinda’ creepy. You need a hobby.”

“Oh yeah? How about I run around the neighborhood in circles like a pony?” I retort.

“Hey!” Ben snaps back, tossing shaggy chestnut curls out of his eyes and flicking droplets of warm perspiration on my arm.

I jump back, wiping the sweat from my pale arm. “Sick, man!”

He shrugs. “I’m starving. Wanna’ get something to eat? I could go for like six cheese coneys right about now.”

“You’re disgusting,” I cringe.

We walk the three blocks to Skyline, idly chatting about school letting out soon and our plans for summer. Ben always takes a trip with his family to Tennessee. He is telling me about the new zipline at the campsite his family goes to, but my mind is still absorbed in the man on the bridge. How can a person be so determined to die? Does he even care that much about it anymore? He seems so calm. “...straight into the pond at the end! Dude, are you even listening?”

“Huh? Yeah. Oh yeah, sounds cool, man.”

Thankfully, before Ben can ask what was distracting me, we arrive at Skyline. I never did understand this place. As far as I’m concerned, chocolate doesn’t belong anywhere near chili. Ben, however, doesn’t seem bothered by the idea at all and is soon devouring countless mini hotdogs smothered in “chili” and mountains of cheese. “You’re a beast. Seriously where does it all go?”

Ben pats his now distended stomach and emits a most impressive belch. “Come on, let’s go back to my mom’s. She was gonna’ make burgers for lunch.”

I stare at him for a second, mouth agape in mock surprise, and then we head out. Ben’s mom does make the best food. On our way to his house, a man is struck by a car running a red light. We glance casually at the scene as we pass a cluster of shops where kids from our school congregate on the weekends. I peek through the storefronts, trying to appear only passively interested, but really attempting to catch a glimpse of -- “Oof! Oh - uh, sorry, excuse m-” Her. My face flashes hot crimson.

“Oh hi, Petey! Sorry about that, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” My palms grow clammy and my crimson face turns scarlet at the nickname I haven’t heard in years.

“Hey, Sarah Kate.” I notice the small notebook she dropped when we collided and reach down to pick it up. She quickly snatches it from my hand, her own face taking on a magnificent blush. Still crouched on one knee, I raise an eyebrow up at her, feeling a bit more confident now that the discomfort is on her end of the conversation. “Oooh, what’s in the notebook? Hmmm?”

“It’s nothing,” Sarah replies quietly, staring at the notebook.

“Oh nooothing, huh?” I say as playfully and cool as I can, trying to keep my cheeks from burning once again. “Then you won’t care if I take a little peek?” I snitch the book from her hands and hold it above my head teasingly. Being that I stand a good nine inches taller than her at 6’1”, she doesn’t stand a chance and merely stares up at the book helplessly.

“Give it back, Peter.”

“Aw, but if it’s nothing, I’ll just do a little light reading. Everyone’s always telling me I should read more.” I lower the book down directly in front of my face, and as my eyes scan the first page of writing, my stomach drops. My face, deep red just moments ago, drains to a deathly pallor. This isn’t just a book of Sarah Kate’s old gossip or doodles. I close the book slowly and put it back into her hands, not daring to meet her glassy eyes for more than a fleeting instant.

She sniffs. “It was my sister’s.”

“Yeah,” I say. I wish I could think of something intelligent to do or say, but my stomach hasn’t returned to its rightful place yet, and I’m afraid that opening my mouth any further would result in its contents being strewn all over the surrounding area.

“Well, I’ll see you at school.” And with that, she hurried off.

Sarah Kate’s sister Brianna was killed a few weeks ago while she was out with friends. She knew she only had one life left, but she ran with a pretty wild crowd and they decided to go rock climbing sans safety gear. Bri wasn’t sure she wanted to go, but the innate human need for acceptance outweighed the possibility of eternal death. Unfortunately fate ran its course and Brianna slipped and fell 87 feet through the air before landing on the sharp rocks below. She didn’t stand a chance of surviving. Just like that, Sarah was an only child.

And here she was, grieving the loss of her sister, when I came up and made a complete a*s of myself. I turn on my heels to head back in the direction of Ben’s house and groan audibly. Why does this always happen to me?

I saunter the last couple blocks and enter Ben’s place through the side door. Ben is already at the kitchen table with two burgers on his plate. Between pieces of hamburger and lettuce, he mumbles, “‘Bout time!” He swallows his current truckful of food and follows his welcome with his best female mocking tone: “Oh hiiii Petey!” He bats his eyelashes for emphasis and then rolls his eye, “I’d have stuck around to wait for you, but it looked like you needed a moment alone.”

He emphasizes the last word a bit too much and I feel a touch of heat return to my cheeks. I fight it back and give him a solid punch in the shoulder.“Oh whatever.”

“‘Whatever nothing! You’re obsessed with that girl. Have been since before I met you.”

“Am not!”

Ben grabs the ketchup bottle, spreads a thick layer over the side of a hamburger bun in his best rendition of lips and attempts to smash it into my own, taunting, “Oh Sarah! Kiss me, Sarah Kate! muah, muah, muah, muah!”

I manage to dodge the dripping bun and successfully whack it out of his hand onto the kitchen floor. Just then, Ben’s mom walks into the room. “Peter, it’s always good to see you! You don’t come by enough anymore. You should re-- Oh boys, I just washed this floor!” Mrs. Caverly heads toward the hall closet, mumbling her typical mantra about teenage boys and the nuisance they can be. I take the opportunity to slip out and avoid being scolded. I snag a burger from the kitchen table and tell Ben I’ll see him at school the next day.

I spend the next few hours wandering around outside. Most of my free time is spent in similar fashion: loitering at local businesses, sitting idly on the swings at the park, and just walking aimlessly. Anything to avoid home.

I use the term “home” loosely. The house I live in is temporary. The parents of the house assure me it will be my home for “a very long time.” The same message I heard in every other house with every other set of adults assigned as my wardens. Trust isn’t something foster kids come by too easily. Abandonment will do that to the best of people, take their trust away. Toss in the quilt of lies they sew together over the course of your life about what happened to your real parents, how much each set of foster parents “loves and cares deeply” for you, and the vagabond feeling from moving nine times in fourteen years, and you have a recipe for a lonely, angsty foster teen. Then again, what teen isn’t full of adult-refuting, self-asserting angst? Maybe I’m not so different after all…

Eventually I accept my fate, turn west and amble my way to shantytown, my arm resting on my hairline to shade my eyes from the setting spring sun.

© 2015 ReadWriteTeach

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Reviews

Eden

This was absolutely wonderful! The dialogue between characters is very natural and your descriptions leave just enough wiggle room to allow the reader some freedom when picturing this world and these people. I really enjoyed the sense of maturity that I got from Peter, especially when his "typical" fourteen-year-old boy personality comes through and we see the difference between the way he thinks when he's alone and the way he acts when he's with friends...or around Sarah. Great writing and I'm looking forward to the rest of this story.

Posted 9 Years Ago

mappingthenight

I really enjoyed this! The concept is different than anything I have read before. It's intriguing to think about the Perennials/Finites and how the extension of life alters how people perceive their existence. The almost indifference to it. I look forward to reading more and seeing where this story goes. Thanks for sharing!