Fairy: Chapter Two

For Deeze, who simply couldn’t wait any longer.

Merry was in the middle of a snarky “yeah, right” when Quinn kissed his cheek and vanished.

Dumbfounded, Merry blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. He reached out and felt the air where Quinn had been. Nothing. He looked around again.

“Quinn?”

Silence reigned supreme save for the angry sound of someone’s lawnmower in the distance. Merry dared to lean back, his side and back in excruciating pain, and look down the expanse of the wrap-around porch. Nothing. He looked down the other side of the porch. No Quinn.

“Quinn, come on. Where’d you go?”

The lawnmower fell silent and the sound of a weedwacker started up.

“Quinn?” Silence, except for the distant whir of the weedwacker. “Quinn!”

Merry’s shout startled the old woman who lived across the street and she looked up from her gardening, a sour look painting her face as she glared at him.

Merry looked away from her gaze quickly. Quinn had vanished. As in disappeared, vamoose, gone. Like, totally, not here! Had Merry imagined that Quinn saved him? Walked him home, and... and...? He rubbed his cheek where Quinn had... had... kissed him! Holy cow!

Merry was many things. Shy, spineless, a geek of humongous proportions, but he was not crazy. Maybe Rick had knocked him unconscious and his brain had rattled so hard against his skull he was delusional. This had to be some imagination of his figment caused by trauma. Yeah. Trauma sounded good. His figment was damaged.

His cheek began to tingle. He rubbed it and the tingle deepened. He rubbed his cheek harder as if to wipe the tingle away and then looked at his fingertips. Nothing.

Okay, he was not nuts. He gripped his backpack and made the mistake of jumping to his feet. He reached for the porch railing as dizziness and nausea assailed him. He hated Rick with all his might.

Had Quinn really kissed him? Nope. Not possible. There was no way that Quinn had kissed him. No freakin’ way. The only explanation was trauma. Plain and simple. Rick knocked him out and this was plain old trauma. He could be delusional from trauma. Right? Right?

Merry fished the house key from his jeans pocket and stared at it in the palm of his hand. First fingering the solid metal, and then squeezing the key tightly, he told himself again that he was not crazy. He fed the key into the lock, turned the door handle, and pushed the front door open. It creaked softly on its hinges as he closed it behind him and leaned back against it. “I am not nuts,” he said softly.

Merry’s California bungalow was small, dark, and dingy, and hadn’t been cleaned since his mom left three years ago. It was only him and his dad now. Well, really, it was only him. His dad worked long hours at the concrete plant, and then went out drinking with the guys almost every night. He was rarely home before midnight and, equally rarely, sober.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the gap between the window curtains and illuminated the dust motes floating on the air—and only served to remind Merry of his absolute isolation. At nearly seventeen years of age, his life had become one of perfect loneliness.

Merry slid down the door and came to rest on his sore buttocks. Rick had literally kicked his butt. His forehead came to rest on his knees. His cheek tingled again, and he rubbed it absently as the first tear fell. He’d come to hate his life so.

After an indiscernible time, Merry struggled to his feet, the soreness from the beating taking hold, and trudged down the short hallway to his ten-by-ten-foot bedroom. Small as it was, it was his only haven. He kept it spotless and the ancient wood floor polished to a high gloss. Everything in the room was his. Everything in it was safe. Including him. He dropped the backpack on his twin-sized bed, reached for the neatly folded pajamas hidden under his pillow, and slowly made his way down the short six foot hallway to the small bathroom. He would take a shower, down some Tylenol, nuke some frozen food of zero nutritional value for dinner, and go to bed. Screw that it was only four o’clock in the afternoon.

Merry set the pajamas on the lid of the commode, undressed, and surveyed the damage. The bruises were already turning an ugly shade of purple. Great. More fodder for Rick to hassle him about in gym. He pressed on his lower back with a flat hand and it hurt. Bad. He turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder, but the small mirror above the sink was too high on the wall to show him anything. He turned back to the mirror and peered closely at his cheek. Though it continued to tingle, there was no evidence of Quinn’s kiss. Yep, trauma. It had to be.

Merry took a hot shower, the small water heater affording him but ten minutes of warmth. He dressed slowly, feeling better now that he was clean, and the Tylenol he’d taken had given him a modicum of relief. He threw his dirty, grass-stained clothes in the hamper, and headed to the kitchen.

Merry searched the refrigerator for something that looked vaguely edible. At least, something that didn’t have hair growing from it. He tossed an old sandwich and wasn’t surprised when it missed the trashcan. He never did anything right. He closed the refrigerator door and opened the freezer door. Half a pound of freezer-burned hamburger, one deflated hotdog bun, and Pizza Bites®. He reached for the Pizza Bites and shook the box. There were enough left in the box to satisfy his hunger. He tossed them onto a plate, shoved the plate into the microwave oven, and hit the two-minute cook button.

Merry stared out the kitchen window above the sink as the sound of the microwave droned on. Their small backyard looked wild in the twilight, overgrown to the point of being a veritable jungle. He’d watched his mother through this window more times than he could count, and could almost see her lithe, ghostly figure tending the garden. She had loved her bright pansies, crimson bougainvillea, and tender ferns.

Miss you, Mom, he thought wistfully. Her ghost looked back at him, winked, and mouthed “I love you.” The dreamlike moment only affirmed his thoughts about trauma.

The microwave beeped. Merry removed the plate and carried it to his room.

He glanced through his homework as he ate, found nothing he wanted to do, and was ahead in all his classes anyway. He swallowed the last bland Pizza Bite and did something he rarely did. He didn’t bother to return the plate to the kitchen. He set it on his desk—rather, the four milk crates that made up his desk. He raised his arms above his head and tried to stretch but gave up when pain beset him again. With a sigh, he stood, turned the overhead light off, and climbed into bed.

As the night wore on, Merry became increasingly convinced he had imagined Quinn saving him from Rick, walking him home, and kissing him. His cheek tingled again, and he rubbed it, certain his imagination acting up again. He yawned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the covers over his head. He hated his life. He hated his loneliness.

“Ye no longer be alone, little fella. I give ye me word.”

Merry shot up in bed. “Quinn?”

Chapter One Table of Contents Chapter Three