Asleep

fiction by Aaron Abel

The day Ethan died was the first day it snowed.  None of us really knew how to feel or what to say.  To be honest, I didn’t really know him that well. I stared outside my bedroom window, standing close to it and leaning my forehead against the frozen glass.  The aura of fluorescent streetlight illuminated the snow, making it look more blue than white as tiny flakes rapidly fell. It was 10:45. I had just gotten off the phone with Jon; he was one of the first to find out. He was eavesdropping on his mom while she was on the phone with someone else’s mom. Jon said Ethan drank half of a bottle of wine and took a handful of whatever he could find in his parents’ bathroom. Then he lay in bed and that was the end. He fell asleep and never woke up.

I had so many questions. I wondered if he planned it meticulously or if it was just a spur of the moment decision. I was only friends with his younger brother so I don’t know if he was that ‘type’ of person, you know?  I remember walking by Ethan’s closed bedroom door on my way Dan’s room. Ethan was never mean to us, but he never really socialized with us.  The only real memory I have of him is the music pounding from his room resonating throughout the house.  Dan and I would play videogames or watch movies and do our best to tune out Ethan’s music.  I never resented him for it; actually, I thought it was kind of cool. I wondered how it must feel to be completely immersed in your own world.  With the door closed and the music up, he could escape. 

I turned away from the window and sat at the foot of my bed, still staring out the window.  As silly as it was, I think I was scared to fall asleep for fear that I’d never wake again, but then it was morning, and my alarm erupted with its harsh beeping. I rose slowly and stretched out, still under the covers.  I sat up in bed and for a moment, I forgot about the whole thing.  I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I walked down the steps and into the kitchen. My mom and dad put an abrupt end to their conversation.  “Hey kid, how are ya?” my dad said, rubbing his hand on the top of my head.  He never used this tone with me. I pictured my parents staying up late last night thinking about what they would do if I decided to make the same choice Ethan did.

“I’m good.” I responded.

“Honey, it’s okay to be upset,” my mom added, using that same tone.

“I know.” I said.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal and pulled a stool up to the granite countertop. The silence between the three of us was just us trying to find the right words to say. I finished my breakfast and placed the empty bowl in the kitchen sink, grabbed my stuff, and left.

“See you guys later.”

I closed the door behind me and felt the cold air sting my face.  I could see my breath in the clear morning air.  There was a dusting of snow on my dad’s car and the whole neighborhood lay beneath a sheet of white.  The blacktop of the plowed streets was the only color. I walked to my bus stop at the end of the street and listened to the snow compacting and crunching beneath my sneakers.  The guys were already at the bus stop when I arrived.  We all mumbled greetings and then just stood, shivering.  Soon, Justin broke the silence.

“I heard his mom tried to wake him up for school.”  Anthony cut in,

“No way dude, it was his little sister. She heard his alarm going off and that’s how they found him.”

Pete added, “I wonder why he did it? Was he depressed? This morning my mom asked me if I was feeling okay. She felt my forehead and practically gave me an entire examination before I left today.”

Everyone shared their theories on how Ethan was discovered, who saw him first, and who knew it was going to happen. Everybody disagreed on everything except for one thing; he was dead.  The bus pulled up and the loud air brakes put a stop to our discussion.

I didn’t know Ethan, but as I moved from class to class I kept thinking about Ethan. I wondered if he set his alarm for the next morning, just in case his plan failed. I thought about the way he chose to end his life, why this? He could’ve slit his wrists and laid in the bathtub like in the movies. He could’ve stood up on a chair and tied a rope around his neck, kicked the chair out from under him and let himself dangle until the fight was over.  He could’ve jumped off the top level of the parking garage at the mall. When I thought of each different way to do it, I saw the scene of the death in my mind. I just felt like the pills gave him so much time to regret his decision. Like that split second when someone jumps off a bridge or a building, that split second of regret right before they hit the ground.  Also, it seemed like a lot to swallow. I thought about the little tablets, like tic tacs, filling my mouth and moving painfully down my throat. My math teacher’s voice dissolved the images in my mind. “Tom? Tom, do you have the answer?” I my throat ached and I replied, “I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”  He just shook his head and called on someone else. As hard as I tried to focus, I kept zoning out. And when I zoned out, I thought about Ethan.

As I walked home from the bus stop, the wind blew bitter and hard. It made all the snow crystals in the street move in swirls. I watched the sparkling dust move over the pavement. The sun had been out all afternoon, but I didn’t notice until I got home.  It illuminated everything; it was the kind of afternoon when you had to squint to look outside. The doorknob to my house felt cold through my gloves. I knocked the snow loose and wiped my feet, then closed the door behind me.

I went upstairs and sat on my bed staring outside. I fell to my and then I fell asleep. I was in front of a funeral home. I was in my suit wearing a tie. I looked around and saw a lot of the kids from school. I wondered how many of them actually knew Ethan and how many were coming just to miss school. I walked in and saw Ethan’s mom crying in the corner by the entrance to the room. His father stood tall with watery eyes.  The funeral home had light brown carpets and dark red wallpaper with tiny gold stripes. The lights were all so dim that it took my eyes some time to adjust from the brightness outside. As Ethan’s mom was crying, his little sister Maggie, 6 years old, looked over at me and pointed to the doorway of the next room, where Ethan was.

I entered the room and waited in line. There was a fake potted plant by my side. The plastic leaves reflected the dim lights.  The line shuffled and little by little I got closer to the casket.  Finally, I was standing in front of the open casket staring down at Ethan.  The inside was made of an off-white silk fabric. The coffin was dark mahogany. It was glossy and smooth and I moved my hand slowly from the top, where Ethan’s head lay, to the bottom where his feet were.  His hands were crossed at his waist and his suit had no wrinkles anywhere.  I bowed my head and closed my eyes pretending to say a quick prayer and then I moved past and let the other behind me say their blessings.  I found an empty seat against the wall and watched Ethan’s family and friends move through the room, grieving one by one and then together in little groups after they passed through the line. 

When I woke up, it was dark outside. It was 7:00 at night and my parents were standing over me. Startled, I rubbed my eyes. None of us said anything, but I could see the worry on their faces.  They had eaten already, but left me a plate to heat up.  I pushed the food around on my plate until it was no longer warm. I didn’t know why I was so affected by this death. I didn’t know Ethan. Why couldn’t I think of anything else? I stood up and scraped the entire meal off the plate and into the trash. I put the plate in the sink and went back upstairs.

I sat at my desk to start some homework. I flipped through a few pages in my history book without really retaining any of the information.  The clock on the wall above my desk ticking was the only noise besides the drone of the television downstairs.  After an hour of pretending to study I closed the book. I turned off the lights and stood up to the window again.  The snow had melted during the day, but it froze as soon as the temperature dropped.  Our yard had a solid icy layer that softened all of the shoveled snow into smoother lumps.  As I lay in bed with my eyes open, the time passed until my alarm erupted in the pale blue morning light.

I left for school that morning in a suit and tie with a handwritten note from my mother that would allow me to be excused from school. I wandered from class to class until it was time to leave.  Most kids had moved past Ethan’s death and no longer thought about it.  There were a few of us that were excused from school. My parents and I never really discussed whether I’d be attending or not, it was just understood.

I stepped outside the double doors of my school and got into the car with my parents.  The air was bitter and dry, the kind that moves right through the thickest of hats and scarves.  As we drove to the church where the service would be held, I started seeing things again.  This time it was Ethan’s body on a metal cart in a morgue.  The lights were soft blue and everything was stainless steel.  He lay beneath a sheet with only his head and chest exposed. Our car hit a pothole and knocked my head against the cold hard window, bringing me back to my senses.  My parents were talking to each other and the radio was playing commercials. I put my head back into my seat and closed my eyes; I had begun to feel nauseous.  I pictured Ethan’s bulky coffin surrounded by bouquets of flowers and pictures of him throughout his life.  We pulled into the church parking lot and I took long deep breaths as if I were drinking water.

When we entered the church, it was full. We found a spot standing against the back wall.  After the conversations died down, the priest in front began to talk.  I don’t remember what he said, but I remember feeling better after hearing it.  My eyes were wandering all over the room, I saw some people crying while others comforted them. As I stared blankly into the sea of black clothing, I thought about what my funeral would be like.  I tried to focus back on the priest to listen to what he was saying.  Then I realized there was no coffin.  A dark blue vase stood on a table by the altar. It was polished and shiny, with touches of gold detail.  I leaned over to my father and tapped him gently to get his attention. He looked at me and I whispered in his ear, asking about the vase.  “…The good of both the living and the dead. Amen.” The priest concluded his sermon and an organ accompanist started playing as everyone filed out of the church. We walked through the crowd as my dad shook some hands and my mom gave some hugs.  I couldn’t stand to think about Ethan’s dead body engulfed in flames. It just wasn’t right. An entire person reduced to ashes in a vase. Death was supposed to be peaceful, not this fiery end.  As we got back into the car, nobody said a word and we followed the procession to the cemetery. As I looked out the window, I noticed that it had begun to flurry. 

And it’s the winters like this, even years later that I’m reminded of the lies that we all told ourselves. It’s not a peaceful end; it’s a slow and never ending disappearing act. It’s like flurries tapping your bedroom window keeping you awake while the snow slowly overcomes everything.

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Aaron Abel is a senior creative writing major with a minor in business. He is from Malvern, Pennsylvania. He enjoys reading and writing poetry and fiction. He is a proud member of Phi Mu Delta. He is also a singer/songwriter and enjoys performing frequently on and off campus. He has appeared in RiverCraft and The Susquehanna Review.

Coming next week: poetry by Amber L. Cook