Dislocated

He’s with Ashley when he gets the call. It’s an unexpected caller ID that pops up on his screen, the familiar tune cutting through a battle cry on Tekken as someone falls to their defeat. Ashley looks at him expectantly when the ringing continues, taking time to pause the game, but the softness in her eyes drains away as she stares at Chris. His eyes are rounder, wide, teeth clenching his jaw into a well known look of pain. Something she’s seen too many times.

Chris notices the skeptical look in her eyes, the beginnings of a ‘don’t’ and before she can respond he’s moving, setting down the controller. He slides off the couch without a word, phone pressed to his ear as he hurries to the door.

“Hello?” He answers, stepping out into the blue hallway of Ashley’s apartment.

It feels as if a decade has past since he’s heard Malia Washington’s voice when in reality it’s only been a year. Her voice is a soft wind in his ear of distant memories.

“Hello, Christopher. I hope I’m not intruding.” The guarded tone sends a sharp pang through him and he clutches the phone tightly in one hand.

“Not at all, Mrs. Washington. Is everything okay?”

A pause. Chris can hear the faint sound of a computer clicking through the receiver. Malia breathes.

“We found Josh. He’s been undergoing treatment at a private facility and it’s been… successful. I understand with past events this may not necessarily be news you wanted to hear.”

Chris’ mind blanks. They found him. They found Josh, his best friend, the deranged psycho ‘killer’, his best friend that they left in the mines, to die, to be eaten alive. Chris tries to swallow, but his throat burns.

“What?” There is a thunder in his ears, a loud roar of blood pulsing through his veins. Malia is patient as she’s always been since he and Josh were kids. She waits in silence as if allowing Chris time to fully assess what she’s said, time, he realizes, to hang up and never look back.

“W-When?”

The creak of Ashley’s apartment door comes from behind and he turns to her, face flushed hot.

“About six months ago. We created a rescue team for the situation, in order to avoid-“, Malia pauses and swallows thickly. Chris can hear the end of the sentence. To avoid what happened with her daughters.

“I’m sure you’ve moved on, Christopher. I’m making this call on behalf of your previous relationship with our family. Samantha will be called shortly after.” Malia informs him, tone clipped and protective. “I understand fully if you do not wish to speak with him or see him given previous-“

“When can I come see him?” Chris interrupts, the hair on the back of his neck rising and he’s already fumbling with his car keys. He can hear Ashley scrambling after him, the loud slam of a door closing echoing behind him.

“If you’d like, you can see him today.” She tells him, relieved.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Thank you, Chris. We’ll see you soon.”

The line clicks off and Chris stands in the small foyer of the apartment lobby, his mind overanalyzing the warmth in Malia’s voice.

“They found him.”

Chris turns towards Ashley, who is sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, leaning against her knees, face in her hands. Her hair is tied back and Chris can see edges of darkness creeping under her eyes when she looks up at him, face full of understanding and annoyance.

Her smile breaks his heart. “I guess the dream is over.” Ashley mutters bitterly. “Chris, I know there’s nothing I can say to stop you. But please, please remember how much we’ve been through this year. How much we’ve gotten past.”

He remembers the first night back, after they were all released from custody, the questioning finally over but the press hounded them like animals, demanding answers of what really happened up there. They latched onto the story of the last Washington child going missing like vultures in heat, smearing their names through newspapers as a “pack you’d die to get into”. He remembers the first batch of nightmares, the shrill screaming that iced his veins and set his insides on fire with dread as he watched the stranger who helped them get beheaded over and over again while Mike screamed in his ear that his best friend killed Jess.

His dreams would magnify and fester until he would see Josh, twisted and inhumane, dressed in bloodied overalls. He’d watch him stalk after Ashley, after Sam before ripping them apart. He’d watch tied from the chair where he would decide to kill himself or Ashley, watch as Josh rips Ashley apart, eyes white like Hannah’s, limbs long and deformed, and he’d laugh as Chris sat terrified saying things only Josh would say.

‘just joshin’ ya, Cochise.’

Chris’ fists are clenched tight at his sides. He forces himself to focus on Ashley, to remember that the prank was where Josh’s blame ended. Ashley rises from her seat, moving towards him, concern etched in her features. She touches his arm gently and he looks at her, unable to force the smile he wants to.

“You don’t have to go.”

He doesn’t. “He’s my best friend. He’s alive, Ash. I..” Chris tries to breathe. “He needs to know that I went back for him. I-It wasn’t enough but I tried.”

Ashley gives him a sad smile. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” His lips tremble when he kisses her forehead, lips lingering against the skin. Her hand shakes as she grips his sleeve tightly.

“I’m still your girl and I’ll support you because I love you.”

“Thank you.” Chris wishes he could do better by her, wishes that his nightmares didn’t wake her up at night.

“Tell him I said hello. Invite him over when he feels up to it. I’ll make something.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He kisses her again, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. Ashley laughs wetly, petting his hair as she hugs back. “I’ll call you when I’m leaving.”

“I’ll be here.”

Ashley follows him out of her apartment building, arms folded across her stomach. She only walks as far as the sidewalk will let her, standing above the steps. Her eyes never leave him even as his tires squeal against the pavement as he peels out of the parking space, disappearing down the road.

Chris’ mind blanks as he drives, the road to the Washington house fresh in his mind. He can hear the faint beginning of whispers in the back of his mind, the familiar creep of dread that happens when he’s alone. Chris turns on the radio, switching to what Josh had always dubbed ‘the Dad station’. He doesn’t recognize the song itself but it sounds like Metallica.

Sam calls as he drives, for the first time in months, and he puts her on speaker, a welcomed distraction.

“She called you.” It’s not a question so much as it is an acceptance.

Chris twists the rubber of the steering wheel under his palm. “Yeah.”

“I’d thought about coming today. But,” Sam sighs. “I wanted time. Time to process. I haven’t forgotten what has happened even though it seems everyone else has. I’m relieved. Are you…relieved?”

“I don’t know.” He admits. Chris had spent so long trying to get better, to move past his own guilt of leaving Josh behind but Mike had said, the wendigo- that Hannah had taken him. “It means I have a lot to apologize for.”

Sam snorts over the line. “You think he’ll want to hear that we feel bad?”

He never considered that. Never considered that Josh might not look past being left behind or being tied up and a gun pointed at him. He had not intention of killing them, despite no one knowing that at the time, but Mike had every intention of killing him because of Jess.

“I don’t know.”

“Me either.” Sam agrees easily. “I feel a bit cowardly for not coming today. I guess I wish that we were being called for three people and not one. Do you think he’ll forgive us? For not listening? The signs were there, Chris. How did we miss them?”

Chris can’t find an answer for her. The police had pulled files from Josh’s psychiatrist, had letters and emails from Dr. Hill saying that Josh hadn’t shown up to sessions for months. Chris had known Josh was on medication- was on medication for the majority of the time they were friends. He can see the beginnings of the Washington house through the trees.

“I’ll let you go.” Sam tells him. “Enjoy your time. Don’t tell me how it goes just yet. I want to see him for myself.”

“Alright. If all goes well, let’s have a party.”

“Har.. har.. I don’t think he’ll want any excitement soon. But we’ll see.”

Sam hangs up without a goodbye, just in time for the road to meet the gravel of the windy road that led up to the Washington’s. There was a gate, Chris doesn’t remember being there with a camera that focuses on him. He pokes his head out the window and gives a small wave before the camera shifts back to the road. The gates crank upwards, disappearing into trees like a carefully constructed disguise. He drives through, unable to see through the thick trees until road becomes the pristine white of the driveway entrance. He circles around the large, round garden placed parallel to the house. There are rose bushes where a bench used to be and the plants seem overgrown and blossoming without the clean balance of a skilled gardener.

Chris parks along the side, as he always has, and climbs out. The house is the same as before with a resignation of silence. Instead of 5 there were only 3 voices to echo it’s walls. He heads up the marble steps, noting their lack of shine, leaves collecting along the porch. The flowers in the pots near the door are dead, wilted and grey. He lifts a hand to the door bell but before he can ring it the door is opening and Malia Washington stands before looking more her age than she ever had before. Her frame is tiny, dainty almost but she still stands proud as though ready for an attack.

“Chris.” She greets pleasantly.

He raises his hand in response. “Hey.”

“Please, come in.”

Chris walks inside, the instant warmth of the house burning into him with a startling intensity. He regrets layering almost instantly but then Malia is pressing a hand to the small of his back and he has no time to question his clothing sanity. She guides him wordlessly, past the extravagant stairs that lead to the second floor, past the closed office of Bob Washington. They move through darkened hallways, past covered picture frames and turned away portraits. The windows are closed tight, curtains pinched together. It’s a part of the house he remembers coming down many times before. Back when they kept the windows open and music rang through the air.

Malia pauses before they reach Josh’s room.

“It will be better if it’s just you.” She tells him. “It’s hard to. To want to give him space and time since he’s been better. But I imagine, he’d be surprised to see you.”

With that, she leaves him, giving his arm a small squeeze as she walks back the way they came. Chris watches her until she disappears and turns back to the hallway. Josh’s room was straight back to the right, last door on the left. But things were different now. Chris walks slowly, talking himself through each step until he reaches the now blank door that belonged to Josh Washington. There were no more posters tacked up, no personalized ornaments dangling from the doorknob. It was bleak and impersonal.

Chris doesn’t knock, just turns the knob before he can talk himself back home, back to Ashley, away from everything, away from this.

The first thing he notices is that the windows here are open, the curtains are drawn back and tied with a silver band. The room is bathed in a warm light from the sun, who peaks past the trees. There are drawings against the wall, beautiful sketches of Hannah and Beth and the wendigo. They are black with thumb smudges, light traces of fingers. Josh’s desk sits pressed underneath one of the bay windows, covered in unbound manuscripts and pages of written words. His bed is a mess of silver and grey and black, sheets untucked, blanket on the floor as if an after thought. Chris holds his breath, unable to comprehend what kind of nightmares Josh sees.

There is a door tucked in the corner that leads to a patio. It’s carved into the side of a hill, looking over a hidden lake you can only see from the main highway. It’s where he finds Josh, starring over the expanse of water. He’s dressed in a pair of baggy sweats and an old hoodie that Josh recognizes as one of his. It’s one from high school, specifically from an anime club Chris was too embarrassed to tell anyone he was in. Josh clowned him for months until he conceded and quit.

Josh turns to him, one arm folded lazily over the wooded railing, the other pressed to his chin covering a corner of his mouth. There is a white surgical mask tangled in his fingers. The dark bags under his eyes are deep, old and Josh has never seemed so tired.

A slow smile crosses his face. “Hey, Cochise.”

Chris chokes on his words, unable to keep the smile from breaking across his face. His insides bubble and curl until he’s sure he’s going to vomit. Josh straightens up, looking a whole lot smaller than he used too. His limbs are frail now, legs thin. He stands before Chris, but only looks at him with the right side of his face, eyes insecure and hesitant. Chris can see the beginnings of a jagged tear

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

“I almost didn’t come. It felt like a dream.”

Josh snorts. “Or a nightmare. Come on, Cochise.”

Chris’ skin prickles underneath his jacket. “How have you been? It’s been a while.”

“I’m not to sure really.” Josh admits, his voice low. “I don’t remember much. According to the police reports and the doctors, I have a ‘psychotic break’. I hurt people, is what they said. I hurt my friends. My mom said she couldn’t look at me. It was like I wasn’t her son. I wasn’t something else. Something wild and animalistic. They had to keep me confined at all times.” Josh looks up at him. “Like something out of a bad possession movie.”

“My dad called in some people from his family. I think to perform a ritual or something. I don’t remember much about what happened on the mountain or the prank or anything except waking up in a straight jacket and vomiting. Lots and lots of vomiting. Maybe I was possessed. I can’t eat the same anymore. Bet you never thought your boy would go on a smoothie diet, huh?” Josh’s laughs is humorless and quiet.

“Look. I’m sorry. For what happened. I didn’t mean for anything to go that far.”

Chris wants to hug him, wants to scream that it wasn’t him but he can’t, he can’t move. Josh gives him a small smile, moving to put his surgical mask back on and Chris sees it for the first time. The left corner of his mouth is discolored, ripped up pale skin stretches along the side of his face as if someone tried to stitch a jagged hole back up. He never noticed the sharp edges to Josh’s teeth until he noticed a fang pressing out of the corner his mouth, gleaming and a painful reminder of what they found in those mines. What found them.

Josh notices Chris staring and his face crumples into a look of disgust as he turns from Chris, hurrying to cover his mouth.

“Ha, sorry you had to see that, bro. Nothin’ pretty here.”

But Chris isn’t listening. He’s grabbing Josh’s wrist, cringing at how tiny it feels and turns him around so he can see. Josh resists almost immediately, round eyes blown wide. Chris holds Josh close, his friend curling in on himself. He reaches his hand up, thumb lightly brushing over the scar, lone fang drags against the rough pad of skin. Josh flinches away, panic skittering across his face and he’s afraid so, so afraid. Chris’ heart tightens.

“I let you down.” Chris manages to say, throat thick. “This is my fault. I’m so sorry, Josh. I let you down. I let you down. I-“

Chris hugs him close, burying his face into the crown of Josh’s head. His chest heaves with a dry sob. He feels Josh’s thin arms wrap around him, face pressed against the crook of his shoulder. Josh doesn’t smell like the green tea shampoo Ashley uses. He smells like lavender and spices, like earth and the cold bitter chill of the mountain, Josh is trembling in his arms, wordless sounds mouthed into the sleeve of Chris’ jacket.

Chris doesn’t know how long they stay like that, curled around one another. He ignores the longing that tingles against his spine, the purring content that settles over his mind like a thick glaze.

Josh is here. Josh is alive.