Redivider: A Short Story

Slice
Pank
Redivider
One story
Tishman-other
Carve
Forge

Townie
Derrick wakes up. The hangover clings to his skull, his heart, which seems like it's barely working this morning as he rolls off of Tim’s couch and searches wildly around the living room for that glass of water he could have sworn he filled, set beside his sleeping place for when he woke up. This common, quick sense, even when he’s shitfaced, kicks in sometimes and he almost feels good about himself. But if he doesn't quench that demanding thirst now his tongue could dry up. Maybe his eyes too. Everything on the face is connected. He learned that in high school when he had an earache that gave him migraines for a month. What would you rather, he thinks now as the ache in
Tim drinks a glass of orange juice. Kevin that water he was looking for earlier. It is summer and he knows they have plans for fishing, maybe cliff jumping at Shem River.
You look like shit, Tim says as he holds a sip of juice in his mouth, the sound of his voice garbled.
I feel like shit, Derrick says.
We’re going fishing at Kev’s. I have an extra pole in the garage, Tim tells him.
How will it feel? Standing on the dock they always do, the water a steady swirl under him, waves from the motorboats hitting the dock, the splashes of water jumping like Jesus bugs through the cracks, soaking his feet. That clear fishing line dangling in the water, his hands unable to stay steady, the slow swing of it causing him to lose his balance. He thinks about falling in. He thinks about drowning.
Derrick says it as a way out and lying to his best friends feels so wrong. I’m doing the afternoon shift at Adam’s, he tells them.
You’re fucking kidding me, Kevin says.
It’s overtime and I need the
He knows memories do that sometimes. The unclear become vivid and stranger over the years. He was young, standing under the kitchen table, watching his parents yell at one another. His father was demanding some kind of answer from his mother. She kept shaking her head until his father’s hands went around her neck. He squeezed. He started gently shaking. The shaking got faster, harder, more of a thrust.
Derrick imagines his mother’s eyes rolling into her head and he sees what they look like now. A soft, baby blue that stares him down every morning. Eyes that are maybe that light because of secrets and sadness that she keeps locked inside.
He thinks he tastes the redhead still. There is a cherry flavor on his lips, maybe some sugar from her fruity cocktail on the inside of his cheeks. Had he demanded something like his father had? Had he done something his mother would be horrified by?
All the shit in septic tanks. The oil that pollutes the ocean. He wonders how he has become all of these things as he stares into the bathroom mirror at Adam’s, holding his breath so that his face has color again. Derrick lets the air out, leans over the sink. He keeps breathing, the sound deep, the feeling and pulse of it so deep, that his shoulders