TV remote

You try to surf the TV, but the remote is broken.

You and Amber had a fight, and the remote was the first casualty. You gave up after a while and sat on the couch.

Why do I always break the damn remote?

It wasn't the first time. There had been other fights. Every time, you thought it would be over between you, but somehow, you always made up. She was like a wounded bird finding shelter in you. You liked to think of yourself as her lighthouse.

You loved her. You really did.

But your short temper always got in the way.

It always started with silly things you said to each other. One moment you were laughing, and the next you were like two crazy people fighting with plastic guns.

You got out of the house, telling yourself you could use a walk.

But it was just an excuse to smoke.

You never smoked inside. You preferred smoking outside. There was something satisfying about standing alone in the night with a cigarette between your fingers.

The first time you smoked, you were fifteen. You were angry at your father. Nobody noticed, and you didn't make a habit of it.

The second time you lit a cigarette, you were twenty-one. Everyone else was smoking in college, so you started.

You haven't been able to stop since.

Every time you finish a cigarette, you tell yourself you'll quit.

But you don't really want to. You weren't a chain smoker. That was the only good thing you had going for you. Your father had been one. It killed him.

You didn't want to end up like him, so you kept it to one cigarette a day.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a bus stopping behind you.

It was strange. There was no bus stop in this part of town.

The driver opened the door.

It was as if he wanted you to get in.

Usually, you'd take the bus. You never learned how to drive.

There is nowhere I want to go. It's three in the morning, for God's sake. Who needs a goddamn bus at this time of night?

You kept walking.

You couldn't sleep at night. The moment you closed your eyes, things flashed through your mind. Terrible thoughts. Memories of your failures. Silly mistakes you wished you could take back.

You never meant to think about them.

They came anyway, like uninvited guests.

You hated the lockdown. You couldn't leave the house for months. You worked from home, which wasn't much fun.

At least you kept your job.

You hated wearing masks. They were hard to breathe in, and they made you feel like a fish out of water.

But you endured them.

They were probably the reason you didn't get sick.

Your mom did.

You'd tried to avoid talking to her ever since you left home.

You and your father had grown distant during the last couple of years. He was a wife-beater. Your mother never left him. Now that he was dead, she told everyone how good a husband he had been.

It drove you nuts.

When you were eleven, you'd broken your leg. Your father was out of town. When he returned, he wouldn't even look at you. He didn't ask if you were okay.

You started hating him.

Watching him beat your mother only made things worse.

You could never forgive him. You were angry at her too.

How could she defend him?

He didn't drink, but people assumed he did. Maybe that somehow made it easier for them to understand.

The other day, when you were talking about how you'd broken your leg, she held you responsible for it. As though you'd broken it on purpose.

She kept telling you not to be angry. Not to blame them for your problems.

She never knew that you'd been bullied at school because of your chest.

You never looked up when you walked down the street.

You were ashamed. Ashamed of your family. Ashamed of yourself. Somewhere along the way, you'd lost your self-confidence.

You still remembered the night his colleagues brought him home. He'd suffered a stroke. In the morning, your mother took him to the hospital. Your half-brother showed up and took charge. Your mother hadn't finished school and wasn't capable of handling everything herself. She relied on him to take care of your father.

Your mother hadn't been honest with your father when they got married. She'd been working at a textile factory when your father, a police constable at the time, met her.

She never told him about her past. She never told him she already had a child.

Her parents had died when she was fourteen, leaving her to take care of six younger siblings. She had practically raised all of them herself.

For that, you respected her. But the lie had made her marriage a mess. They fought all the time.

After the first stroke, the doctors advised your father to quit smoking.

He didn't.

He was a chain smoker. You think he was trying to escape his problems one cigarette at a time.

It didn't work. Then there was the money.

Money was what finally destroyed everything.

Your father took a loan from the bank and bought two old trucks. He wanted to start a food-truck business, but he didn't know what he was doing.

Before he knew it, the money was gone.

The worst part was the bank notice.

They wanted the money back when you were in your final year of school.

You almost didn't graduate because of the financial difficulties. You were furious with him.

Within a year of his death, your half-brother also died in an accident.

That broke your mother.

She cried often. Grief and loss made the atmosphere at home unbearable.

You felt suffocated. You just had to leave.

Then you met Amber.

You met her for the first time at a party. Amber was the host. You knew her from orientation, but you'd never talked to her much.

Her profile said she was a Scorpio and a big fan of John Green novels.

You loved the movie adaptations.

You became friends.

When Amber was fifteen, she decided on two things: to cut her hair short and stop wearing girl's clothes.

She said she was queer.

You'd seen her childhood photographs. She had long brown hair, and you thought she looked adorable.

But the short hair suited her just as well.

One evening, you were heading the same way. Jes, your sister, was supposed to meet you, but she never showed up. Amber was already making her way across the street when you called out to her.

"Hey, wanna hang out? I'll buy ice cream."

"Is that a bribe?"

"Maybe."

"Sure."

"Jes told me you wrote a poem."

"Oh my God! I'm gonna kill Jes. She promised she wouldn't tell anyone."

"Sure. But before you kill her, can I hear it?"

"Okay. Just a line."

"Sure."

"Vertigo, tears and heartache,

We hope to overcome,

As we stand at the edge of the cliff,

Looking down to the deep abyss."

"That's deep."

"That's all I've—"

She glanced up.

"...got."

"Wow. Look! A rainbow."

You looked up. It was beautiful.

The layers of the rainbow hugged each other like two lovers embracing.

"What are you gonna tell Jes?" she asked.

"That I was on a date with you."

"You're crazy."

You laughed.

Before you knew it, the two of you had moved in together. You were taking on the world together.

Where is she?

As you kept walking, you found yourself listening for the sound of dogs barking.

There was nothing.

Usually, when you passed Witchham Street, the hounds of Mr. Hill always barked. The huge front gate of his house was the only thing between the dogs and you.

If they ever got out, they'd make Stephen King's Cujo come to life.

Suddenly, you stopped.

The street was flooded. It had been raining all day yesterday. The sidewalk on your side hadn't been spared either.

You crossed over to Claire Street, which was dry.

You decided to go to the harbor and watch the sunrise. Fishing boats were getting ready to catch the day's first haul.

You wondered why anyone would choose a business that started before dawn and ended before noon.

Everything about Amber kept playing in your mind like a scene from a movie.

Her voice. Her laughter. They echoed in your ears.

Last night, you'd had a nightmare. Your memories of Amber were familiar, but blurred. Like static on a television screen whenever the signal is lost. You could remember what it felt like to hold her hands, but you couldn't picture her face. You couldn't remember what clothes she might have been wearing.

That scared you.

Your eyes followed the lines made by the constellation Orion. Ever since childhood, it had been a familiar sight in the night sky. Like seeing a lost friend.

Your mother had a telescope. She was the one who had gotten you interested in stargazing. These days, you didn't look up much.

You'd read somewhere that we don't choose when to be sad. Sad times choose us.

You were sad. You just didn't know what to do about it.

Before you realized it, you were standing in front of the cemetery gates.

The large iron gates swung open.

You walked inside.

It was empty at this time of morning. You didn't believe in life after death. There was no heaven. No hell. No Elysium. Death was the final stop.

Then a headstone caught your eye. A lone butterfly sat on top of it. Judging by the condition of the stone, it had been placed there recently. You stepped closer.

The inscription read:

Loving husband and a good friend

Paul Baylin

Born: 23-05-87

Died: 12-06-22

You stared at it. Could it be? Could you be dead?

What were the odds of another person having the same name and the same birthday as you?

You walked back toward the entrance.

The bus was waiting when you returned home. The driver smiled at you. The door was still open.

You lit your cigarette and looked at your house. You knew it was the last time you'd ever lay eyes on it.

You took the last drag.

Then you kicked the cigarette butt onto the ground and crushed it beneath your foot.