If time were a liquid, all would drown.

There was once a time when people lived in peace with eachother– no way, that’s not it. I might as well try to start with ‘Once upon a time’ like those ridiculous fairy tales Dad used to read to me about magical worlds with squirrel people and other crap. Besides, people in this world, or any world for that matter, would never live in peace. Someone is always pissed at someone else, otherwise my history teacher wouldn’t go on and on about this war and that war. The boy swung his hand down in frustration. Long, skinny fingers smacked against a sheet of paper causing a mild rumble. A lamp on the corner of the desk rocked on top of the dark mahogany wood. Dim light shone through a yellow lampshade and bounced off the lamp’s silver base. The crumpled up the page in a blur of twisting hand motions and tossed it into the small metal bin to the right of his chair. The ball of paper bounced off the mound of similarly crumpled up sheets that were overflowing the bin. Most of them were rolled up quite tightly, some just loose enough to show a small portion of their contents. Papers at the bottom of the bin had large and fierce scribbles covering words, while one towards the top showed doodles of stick-figures holding swords and shields in front of a crudely-drawn dragon. As the most recent victim of the boy’s hands hit the ground, a corner flap barely revealed the only legible writing among the pile: Jack Palmer.

Jack’s room was coated in a dark blue paint, which often made him feel more melancholic than cozy. The walls converged at a white closet in the corner, visible in the boy’s right peripheral. The folding doors were originally painted white, but over time had been worn down to a light beige hue. The wood was chipped along the bottom, as if it had been kicked repeatedly. On the right side of the closet doors, there was an ascending list of horizontal lines, labelled with Jack’s name, a month, and a year. Jack’s father figured that writing his name along every height would mean more to him than being reminded that he had no sibling to compare the measurement to. His mother was there for the measuring but thought it more important to have the rest of the ritual be between father and son. The highest point on the list read ‘Jack 5’4 May 26th, 2010.’

A bed sat in the opposite corner from the closet, the right edge of the frame only a few inches away from the leg of Jack’s desk. It was low to the ground, just elevated enough that one could see two shoe boxes, a stack of magazines, and a few dingy socks hiding under it. Behind Jack’s chair was the door to his room. The knob had a dark brass finish in place of its old shine, in contrast to the wood that maintained a lighter shade of white compared to that of the closet.

He put his head down on his desk and let out a frustrated sigh. Bright blonde strands arced from his scalp into a bushy bundle that descended halfway down the boy’s forehead. Jack closed his eyes, hoping that perhaps when he opened them up again his homework would have finished itself. A twist grew in his stomach, one he was all too familiar with. How small must my brain be to only be able to start a story with Disney quotes!? Jack brought his head up slightly only to let it fall back down and collide with the desk in a mild thunk. He grabbed the pencil laying to his right and tossed it behind him. It bounced along the ground, transitioning to a roll until it came to a halt against a pair of feet occupying purple slippers, the top of which was fashioned with pink lilies on each foot.

“Sweetheart,” she said. Jack’s muscles began to decompress, the knot in his stomach untying almost instantly as he turned around. The source of the soft voice stood in front of the doorway and wore a white night gown made of silk sheets that ended just after her thighs. Her kneecaps had patches of dirt and a rosy sheen, most likely from tending to her garden. Her face was as pale as her shins, but her cheeks were flushed like ripe tomatoes. She had perfectly symmetrical cheekbones that were perched on both sides above light pink lips, which were curled up into a slight smile.

“Sorry mum.”

Jack’s Mom bent down in a calm sway, grabbing the pencil at her feet as she took a step forward. “That’s alright love,” she said as she walked closer “breath.”

“It’s not my fault Mum, Disney movies are just stupid and no one should write anything ever and and-”

“Just take a breath Jack,” his mother cut him off.

Jack lifted his head back up, locking his pale blue eyes with the two emeralds in his mother’s, her brows slightly raised. He thought about how purple and black bags always tugged at the bottom of his mother’s eyes, especially on nights when his father was out late.

“Alright, alright,” he said.

Jack took in a stream of air through his nostrils, filling his lungs until his belly started to push outward. As he closed his eyes and pursed his lips to start exhaling, his mind began to empty. All the ideas, all the emotions, all the resentments towards whoever invented English (as well as towards Walt Disney), melted into nothingness. As he breathed back in, warm sensations spread along his left shoulder, followed by his right. His chin was suddenly caressed by a curve of soft white skin. Her curly brown hair felt like springs made of clouds, giving way to Jack’s left ear. As he landed against his mother’s shoulder, Jack could hear her pulse; a thumping whisper that sounded like a lullaby.

“Thanks mum.”

His mother peered sideways, and her eyes began to water. It might not seem like much, but getting a 13-year-old to not only take a deep breath, but also hug their mother, is quite an accomplishment. She knew Jack always felt embarrassed when she cried, especially when it was for him, so she held back the tears and leaned her cheek harder against the top of her son’s head.

“Hey, I’m home,” A voice rang through from underneath the staircase. Jack’s mother flinched slightly, startled by the abrupt noise. “Sorry I’m late again, one of the guys got pinned under concrete,” the voice explained. Footsteps began creaking along the floorboards, low ‘thuds’ traversing below. “Charlotte? Jack?” the voice rang out louder as manic footsteps began rumbling across the first floor.

“We’re up here” said Charlotte, rolling her eyes slightly.

A large figure rose to the top of the staircase, the lamp in the hallway lit up a blue shirt lined with buttons, only a few in the middle done up. The edges at the bottom had dark brown splotches, and threads poked out of tears along the seams. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, forearms down to his hands covered in scratches and caked on dirt. A worn piece of plastic was pinned to his shirt, a name tag that read ‘Jayce Palmer: Site Supervisor’ in bold letters. Jayce wore baggy jeans, faded and torn with large holes that showed streaks of dried blood along his right shin and left thigh.

As he entered the room, Charlotte pivoted towards him, right arm swaying backwards. “Where have you been Jay!” Her voice got louder as she swung her arm forward to smack Jayce’s right bicep.

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“I just told you, did you not hear me from downstairs?” Jayce explained. “I swear some of those guys could get themselves stuck under Styrofoam if I left them long enough.”

As Jayce smirked, Charlotte’s brows became more and more pushed together, her lips and chin beginning to point upwards as if to flip her husband off. Jack smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and shook his head, here we go again.

“It was a rhetorical question you bum!” She yelled, folding her arms across one another. Jayce recoiled; his laugh now caught in his throat as he made a loud gulp.

“I’m sorry Char, it won’t happen again,” affirmed Jayce, his body sagging.

Charlotte’s face remained angry for a few seconds, before leaning in for a peck on the lips, “fine, but it better not ever be you under that concrete,” she whispered just low enough for Jack not to hear.

“I promise,” said Jayce, as he laid his lips on her forehead.

“Ew gross Dad,” Jack interjected.

Jayce looked at Charlotte’s watered eyes, and his son’s mountain of mangled paper. “The story still?”

Jack nodded.

“We talked about this Jack,” Jayce’s smile began dissolving once more.

“I know but it’s so hard dad,” Jack whined, his volume rising, “I’m no writer and I don’t want to be one, so why the hell do I have to do this?”

“It doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to get done!” Jayce countered, his tone just loud enough to rumble the off-centre lamp on Jack’s desk again, “and you have to do it because I said so.”

Jack flinched as his eyes began to gloss over. Charlotte remained beside Jayce in silence, concern washing over her face. Jack, with a slight hesitation, straightened his posture as he glared into his dad’s eyes and confidently asked, “do you know how hard it is to start a story without copying Cinderella?”

Jayce paused.

Jack spread his arms outward and tilted his head back, as if asking the heavens ‘why’.

“No, I … I suppose I don’t,” Jayce chuckled.

Charlotte let out a sigh of relief as a smile grew back onto her face. She looked at her husband, who was giggling hard enough that tiny rocks and clouds of dust began falling from his clothes. She began letting out slight laughs in unison before both subsided due to shortness of breath.

Jayce took another step towards Jack, who still in distress. “Tell you what,” Jayce said as he kneeled down, “if you can’t think of a way to start it, why not just write your story from wherever you want?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jack shrugged.

“Tell a story based on Jack,” his father said gleefully. “The boy who hated writing.” Jayce gestured his hands upwards as if summoning the title to float in the middle of the room.

Jack looked at his parents, his lips forming into a smile. Without another word, he grabbed the pencil from his mother’s hand, spun back towards his desk, and began scribbling rapidly. Jayce and Charlotte turned to one another, their hands locked as they slowly crept out of the room and shut the door behind them.

The cream-colored hallways were lit up by a lamp sitting on a bureau about halfway down the hall. A frame propped up next to the light showed Charlotte, Jayce, and Jack, all in bathing suits at a beach, smiling in front of a descending sun over the waves. Jayce had been thrilled when he realized he had enough money for that trip, even though those in construction rarely have enough income or consistent health to support such endeavors. The floors creaked as they walked towards the door at the other end of the hall.

“Pretty good idea I came up with, eh?”

Charlotte let Jayce’s hand drop. “You shouldn’t have been so hard on him.”

“I’m not going to comfort him for wanting to give up.”

“It’s not comfort for giving up, it’s trusting him.”

“Trusting him for what?”

“That he’ll do the right thing.”

“You believe a 13-year-old has the capacity to do the right thing?”

“I believe that everyone deserves to figure out what right is. For a long time, I didn’t.” Charlotte’s eyes drifted to her left arm.

Jayce tilted his head, the confidence in his face replaced by a mix of concern and recollection. “Homework is a bit different than what you were doing Char.”

“You gave me the chance to see what right is,” Charlotte said softly, “all I ask is that we try to give him the same.”

Jayce’s eyes drifted from his wife, to her arm, then to the ground. Nausea sank into his stomach, a familiar regret that only parents ever feel. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted, but you’ll have to make it up to your son.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Two promises in one night, you are a courageous man.”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Charlotte’s hand swung up and lightly slapped his shoulder as he let out a few giggles. She mirrored the smirk on Jayce’s face. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jayce spread his arms and leaned towards Charlotte, who took two steps backwards.

“No way I’m getting blood on my night gown,” said Charlotte, “go take a shower, use all the soap in the house if you have to.”

Jayce let out a laugh. He picked her hand back up, curled his fingers firmly around it, and walked through their room, shutting the door behind them.

***

Jack’s room had a characteristic gloominess to it during the day. During the night, however, moonlight danced with the blue of the walls which gave it a slight glow that was calming to the boy. Blankets and pillows flipped into the air as Jack rolled around in his bed. He laid on his back, defeated. His eyelids opened slowly, as if they were made of rust. A low hum began to rumble in Jack’s left ear. He slowly rotated his head towards the noise, his eyebrows lifting higher with every inch he turned. Moonlight shined through his window, but instead of the light mixing with the walls, it radiated from below the edge of the bed; it was bouncing off the floor. A knot grew in the pit of his stomach as Jack lifted his head. A body of liquid that was just larger than a puddle, and just smaller than a pond, sat in the middle of the floor. It was filled with what looked like mercury, which glistened in the moonlit room. The liquid gyrated back and forth, as if tiny ice-skaters were performing figure-eights along the top of it. Jack sat up with his mouth hung open.

The hum grew louder.

Jack stood up.

The hum turned into thumps like the kick of a bass drum.

He stood there for a few moments, only a few feet away from the mysterious liquid, barely capable of processing what was happening. He began to feel heat swell inside of him. He could feel beads of sweat flowing down his forehead onto the ridge of his brow. The hair along his arms and the back of his neck raised straight up. Suddenly, it felt as though every cell in Jack’s body began to vibrate. He closed his eyes and widened his mouth to let out a scream but couldn’t hear his own cries for help. The louder he yelled, the louder - and quicker – the thumps became. The sound began to reverberate in his mind, as if his skull were an echo chamber. Fear and confusion enveloped him as his manic screaming subsided. He looked down at his hands. His left hand looked normal, despite feeling like it was on fire. His right, however, was vibrating in a pale blur. Jack held his right hand out and faced it towards the strange ooze. He didn’t know why; he only knew he needed to.

The thumping grew louder.

As he took one step forwards, he began to feel pressure in his shoulder.

The thumping got faster.

Before he could realize it, Jack was immobilized by the weight; it felt like gravity was multiplied tenfold. His eyelids got forced shut. He attempted to scream, but his lips refused to even open. all he could hear was the noise, his only thoughts were the noise. The sound became so loud Jack thought he could see the noise in the black abyss of his shut eyes. All he could feel was the increasing weight along his body, and the noise vibrating the sweat straight off his skin. He opened his eyes. He was laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. A yellowish light coming from the window lit up his room. Jack jumped out of his bed and looked at the ground. Nothing laid there other than the stained hardwood floors. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked at his hands. They weren’t vibrating, although they were shaking. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and walked towards his dressers. A few swift body motions, a couple contemplations as to what colour matching was, and Jack was ready for school. He wore a baggy red T-shirt which had the name of a sports team his dad enjoyed watching, a pair of beige cachy shorts, and two bright yellow socks. His backpack was black and decorated with white lines of various lengths that made it look like 3-d geometric shapes leapt from the fabric. He grabbed the paper sitting on his desk, shoved it into his backpack, and left for school.