Disclaimer: Nope, don't own.
AN: Fog, you know, is my dad's favourite kind of weather. Not for the same reasons listed here though.
I like the fog.
Fog hides things, normal things like the stop sign across the street and the broken pieces of popped balloon on the ground, but also not so normal things. Things like shattered promises and unfulfilled dreams; things like insecurities.
I like the fog; in the fog, you're just a little bit blinded and you can pretend that the world is a beautiful place.
Nate is eating an apple at his rickety little kitchen table and for a moment I wonder why people need to eat; we're so greedy, I think. Why can't we just be like plants and make our own food from the sun's energy? I ask Nate this, and he stares at me for a moment, the sort of look you'd give someone who's not quite all there.
I don't like the look.
"You see, Jason?" he says, in a patronizing tone, "That's exactly the kind of thing that makes people think you're so weird."
I never do get my answer, and Nate never explains what's so weird about wanting to be more like plants.
Shane's mother is a very beautiful person. Her hair is wispy and it turned white in her early twenties, but she may be the most elegant woman I have ever encountered. She's somewhat distracted a lot of the time and I think that may be why Shane is the way he is.
She's graceful, but I don't think she really notices Shane. I like her anyway, because her hair reminds me of the fog and that makes me feel safe.
Sometimes I envy blind people and then I feel horrible, because that makes me a bad person.
I often think that maybe Nate only let me be in the band because he felt sorry for me. I used to think he liked me, but now I think that he probably is only tolerating me. Nate's a very down-to-earth person and he always accuses me of being airheaded.
If I wanted to, I could probably act normal, just for him. I prefer to have my head in the clouds, because there I can pretend that my delusions are a reality.
My stepfather and Nate are very alike. They both seem to get angry a lot, and the main cause of their anger seems to be me. They use different weapons when they attack, though, because Nate uses words, while my stepfather chooses to show his anger in little purple spots all over my flesh. I think that Nate would like to hit me, but he's worried that if he touches me, he might get infected or something.
After all, everyone knows crazy is catching.
Shane comes to band practice one day, tears streaming down his face as he screams about the unfairness of life. I tell him that he should collect his tears, save them in a little glass jar, because one day if our water supply runs out, we could strain the salt out and drink what remains. His fist collides with my face and he tells me that I don't know a thing about how to comfort people. Maybe he's right, but I still think I gave him good advice.
I come home one day to find my stepfather gone. "We're getting a divorce," my mom says. "Things just weren't working out." But I see the ghost of a handprint on her cheek, and I know that he turned on her when I wasn't there. I wish I'd been there to protect her.
She tells me that it might be best if I were to move in with a friend during the legal procedures and I smile and agree even though I can't think of anyone who would take me in. Nate tells me he can't take me because of a space issue, and Shane says his mom doesn't have time to care for two boys.
I tell my mom I found somewhere to stay anyway and spend the bit of money I've saved up from birthdays and random gigs our band has played on a bleak little room in a dilapidated hotel. I have enough money for a week, but I know how to earn more.
I've done it before, when my stepfather brought his friends around. They always had little games they wanted to play with me and my stepfather made thousands of dollars.
I think that maybe when I get some money I'll buy some fabric and make red and yellow curtains for my room.
A man counts bills into my hands and I in turn count them into the hotel owner's hands; each bill feels like a part of my life I'm handing away, but that's just stupid because money is nothing like people. I wonder if my mother has realized I'm not at a friend's house, but don't blame her for the fact that she probably hasn't. She's busy and likes to be busy. If it were particularly windy one day, she'd probably be blown away but she wouldn't mind because there's never really been anything to hold her down since my dad died.
It's Shane that finds me, in the end, and tells me that my mother had noticed.
I wonder if he would've bothered looking if it hadn't been for the band. I move back in with my mother, who apparently has time for me now that the divorce is completed, but either Shane was lying and she thinks I stayed with a friend or she doesn't want to know where I was.
I'm kind of grateful, because I don't really want to think about where I was, either.
Nate and Shane and I, we're driving to an interview with a record label, they want to talk about signing us. Nate and Shane are pretty excited, but I'm fingering the cool material of the car seats and wondering who first thought up the idea of a car.
I ask Shane and Nate what they think it would be like to create something that has an effect on everyone in the world, but I think they think I'm talking about our music, not the car.
I don't think our music has much of an effect on anything.
It's our first real concert ever, and I wonder if it's maybe a little symbolic that it's foggy out. We're on our way to the venue, in this limousine Shane rented because he's a little bit pretentious like that. I tell them that it's lucky that there's fog, because I like fog.
I don't hear their replies, or even if they bothered to reply; what I do hear is a crash. Our chauffer ran a stop sign, and on either side of me I'm not quite certain Shane and Nate are breathing. I'm not even sure I'm conscious, but somehow I know what's going on.
All in all, it's no real surprise that we crashed. After all, the fog hides things, normal things, like the stop sign across the street. It hides speeding Toyotas and drunk drivers. It hides people and flowers and houses and grass.
It hides the smile I allow myself at the thought that maybe, finally, it might all be over.