Velli

Fate isn’t done. He puts on a slideshow presentation of my dead friends, the best and worst parts, as vivid as a blockbuster movie.

And as sad as a Shakespearean tragedy.

Yeah, but even those plays have some happy parts, moments that I would never change because they were so fundamental to my life, like when we first decided we would help the Cursed. All twelve of us were Internet strangers, all Cursed—except for Dream—and in one group chat where we lamented about our lives. Each of us was in a different phase of life, which was both hopeful and not.

Major was the oldest of us in the chat at forty-four, which gave us hope. The life expectancy for the Cursed is about twenty-five because it’s easy to die in Division’s Hand without powers. However, Major hanging out in a chat with a bunch of kids under twenty-five didn’t spark much hope about his quality of life. Still, Major was an active member of our community. He was the one who first posted about Nerves’s kidnapping by the Hallow’s Eve Clique.

Occasionally, I’ll get into a nihilistic trance and question the reality of good and evil. It’s always just a question. I know evil exists because the Hallow’s Eve Clique exists. They are both a cult and a gang-slash-clique. They hope to speak to any god out there by either grieving him or making him proud through the route of human suffering. The exclusive group kidnapped Nerves and planned for her to be their next victim.

We all knew Nerves. She was a member of our group chat. Her profile picture was a gif of a dancing penguin. She had everyone’s birthday memorized and would stay up until midnight to say happy birthday to them first. I didn’t appreciate that then because I always had my mom or a high school acquaintance to celebrate my birthday with, but now, wow, oh wow, would I appreciate someone telling me happy birthday and meaning it.

Regardless, as the Cursed do, we accepted she might as well be dead. We tried our best to honor her by sharing our favorite memories of her, and we all promised to do something to mourn her on the day she died.

But Dream—too naive to know it would be nigh impossible to save her—suggests that we do something about it. The group chat went silent. I didn’t dare touch my keyboard.

“Samuel is typing…” the gray screen read for what felt like an eternity.

“Let’s go save her,” he said, and the chat exploded.

One of the many reasons I deserve you, Fate. One of the many reasons I hate myself is because I hoped that at least one person would say no. They would say we need to go right back to mourning Nerves’s death because we can’t save her. No one did. They were all religiously enthusiastic about the ideal. Fanatics. Fools.

Then someone typed my name on the screen. It had to be her. It would always be her. Dream, with the simple profile pic of a crown as an avatar, said, “What about you, Velli?”

I slammed my laptop shut and left my room. I refused to die for a bunch of Internet strangers. I refused to die for her. I felt like a coward, and you gnawed at me then, Fate. I forget the words, but they were true.

They’re always true.

Truth has levels.

I needed a second voice to drown you and Dream’s suicidal positivity out. Someone who could speak logic. Someone to say it was okay that I didn’t want to die for a stranger. That my life was important enough not to risk. I went to talk to my mom on the couch.

Well, she wasn’t on the couch. She was in the kitchen, cooking something good. Pans sat on each part of the stovetop. Smoke and heat rose from each pan to make my back sweat and the air feel thick in the summer heat. Of course, my mom didn’t turn on the air conditioning to make things better for her. Around that time was the start of our money problems.

Her appearance raised my fears for her health. She was always skinny, but then, she was too slender. The shorts and T-shirts she wore were baggy in some parts and stuck to her skin in others because of how sweaty she was. I suspected she wasn’t eating much to save money. Of course, none of that bothered her. She managed each pan like a wizard navigates cauldrons, adjusting temperatures and flipping over various meats and vegetables.

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“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, Velli. What are you up to today?”

“Nothing.” Always the liar. I found the words to get her to say what I wanted. “I was scrolling through the socials and saw this article about these guys, all Cursed, recruiting members to go against the Hallow’s Eve Clique to save some girl.”

Smoke rose from each pot, and water boiled, but her eyes bored into me. The itch of sweat trickled down my back.

“What?” she asked with a mother’s authority. “You just stay out of that.”

I enjoyed that she reassured me about my previous decision. I enjoyed that she made me feel like I wasn’t a coward for abandoning them, just a pragmatic young man. I was so relieved I didn’t even get mad at the way she talked down to me like I was just a boy. To resist suspicion, I feigned an attitude over her tone.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “They’re not inviting me. It’s just wild that someone would try to take on the Hallow’s Eve Clique, isn’t it?”

Relief flooded her face, knowing that I wasn’t involved. Grave understanding dried it. It came with a slow shake of her head and a big sigh. “It’s sad. Division bless them, because nothing else will.”

I resisted rolling my eyes at the Division comment, or maybe I repeated the phrase in prayerful agreement. I’ve hopped between religious phases, then and now. My mom went back to work.

“Food smells good.” I opened my mouth to say “Glad you’re eating again,” but I didn’t because I would have to hear her deny the obvious truth that she was skipping meals. “What are you cooking?”

“Steak, grilled chicken, and veggies. Gill’s grandmother died, so he’ll need some support.”

“Ah, that’s nice of you.” My heart dropped a bit. “So, it’s all for him.”

“Yes, but I got us a pizza to split. Meat lover’s, that’s your favorite.”

“You hate pizza…” Not even the offer of pizza could make me happy, and I bet she heard it in my voice.

“I do not hate pizza.” She laughed—obviously faked. “Who could hate pizza?”

I knew she did. She said it multiple times, and each time, like it was my job, I would ask her, “Who could hate pizza?”

My mother skipped meals and worked through sweat and humidity to help her friends. She sacrificed herself for her friends. That made me emotional. My own skin felt like it was judging me. Everything itched, and I wanted to be alone.

The people in the group chat weren’t strangers just because they were behind a screen. I talked to them every day. They checked on me just because, and I checked on them just because. I liked hearing their thoughts, and I intended to let them die.

I turned away from my mom and sought something else to latch onto, something to hide from the obvious task before me. The portrait of my dad, my mom, and me found me and would not let go. It was not Drowned-changed by the Rain. Nothing was special about it. Just a simple picture that stared back at me.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Dad wouldn’t have gone either, right?”

“Gone where?” She knew where I meant. She didn’t want to entertain the question. She didn’t want to lie again.

“He wouldn’t have gone against the Hallow’s Eve Clique,” I said.

“No, that’s foolish. Your dad wasn’t suicidal for anybody. He was a man of reason. Just like your mom. Though not as clever as I am.” She playfully whacked me with a spatula. “Might have been smarter than you, though. He remembered when it was his day to take out the trash.”

I smiled. I doubted it was convincing. We were all a family of liars. History told me the truth—that my dad would sacrifice his life for someone who didn’t deserve it.

“Hey, Mom, what would, uh, what would, uh, you and Dad want from me?”

I think she knew something was bothering me, but she also knew if she fought me on it, I would clam up.

So she just said, “Not a thing, just a couple of grandkids and to follow your dreams.”

Back then, my dream was unclear, less focused, but still potent. I hoped to be as good a man as my dad.

I walked to my room without another word. I typed an apology and an acknowledgment that I was in. I let them chat about the little details of where to meet and whatnot. I focused on crafting a plan.

Eventually, it was time to focus on a name for our group. First, it was decided we should be a troupe, not a clique. Names have power in Division’s Hand. Cliques meant money, honor, glory, and problems with other cliques. Troupes meant close to nothing. We could just be a bunch of clowns at a circus.

Now, that’s fitting.

Don’t disrespect us, Fate. We made miracles happen.

“The Happy Doomed” was Amelia’s suggestion for a name, and it stuck. It would be a one-time thing. No reward, no honor, just because we should. I developed a plan that got us in and out of the Hallow’s Eve swamp with Nerves and zero casualties and without them noticing.

The plan was too good, I guess. Because we kept doing it. People kept asking us. Do this. Do that. Save him. Save her. And we did.

No, you don’t get to lie to me. Finish the story, Velli. You made plans, and you saved people until you didn’t. The good moments didn’t matter. The victories didn’t matter. It was all wasted because look at your troupe of dead clowns now. Why is everyone in that group chat covered in worms? Some of their parents are still looking for their bodies, which you know won’t show up, or worse. Then there’s you and Dream. The lucky two. Tell the truth of how your fairy tale ended. Everyone died except the coward who didn’t even want to help the only people who treated him with respect he didn’t deserve and the girl who was too dumb to know you all would die doing this. They’re dead, and it’s your fault.

My eyes well up.

“I’ll make sure your lives weren’t wasted, guys,” I whisper to nothing. “I promise.”

I’m so glad Dream’s gone. I only let her see me cry one night, and that was a mistake. I hold back the sniffles, sucking in the air. The tears can come. They’re silent. Fate might be right. I might be worthless, and it’s time to start acting like it.