The day after the election, he carved a mask.
The day after that, he carved another.
It had never been more than a hobby; a craft passed down to him by his grandfather, who carved and painted all
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What Happened That Night
P.A. Cornell has been published in over fifty venues, including three “Best of” anthologies. She’s been a finalist for the Nebula, Aurora, and World Fantasy awards, and won Canada’s Short Works Prize. Visit pacornell.com."What Happened That Night" is in Short Circuit #18, Short Édition's quarterly review.
Josh is gone, but I see him everywhere. Even now, it's his reflection I see in the puddle as the storm brings me back to reality. I shiver. Seems I'm always cold these days. I need to get my shit together. I need to get clean—but Josh won't let me.
"I'm sorry," I tell the puddle. "I'm so fucking sorry."
It's been weeks since Josh died, but in my head I still see him propped up against the wall, needle in his arm, vacant eyes. I bought the shit. I gave it to him. Now my best friend haunts me—blames me. Just like Angelica.
I saw her yesterday, looking beautiful as ever. Couldn't help think of how she smiled at Josh and laughed at all his jokes, then rolled her eyes at me. I tried to explain but she just kept smoking like I wasn't even there, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Didn't say a word to me the whole time. Didn't even look in my direction. What could I say? Truth is, I don't remember what happened that night. I was high as a kite myself.
I hail a cab. It looks like it's not gonna stop, but then I'm inside and the guy's driving me somewhere. I don't remember telling him where to go. I hope it's home. All the while I'm wondering if it's possible I did something to Josh. Was I so jealous I gave him a needle laced with something extra?
"No. No, he just OD'd," I say aloud, then glance up to see if the cabbie heard, but it's Josh's eyes staring back from the rearview mirror. I look away. Fuck, I'm so cold. "Hey, can you turn the heat up, man?" The cabbie ignores me. I don't bother insisting.
I've been doing more drugs than ever since Josh died. We started out as kids, sharing a joint now and then while we laughed at stupid shit, Nirvana's Nevermind playing in the background. Those were the days. It was just harmless fun back then. Now it's like something alive inside me—inside my head, under my skin. A monster that demands to be fed; that can't be ignored.
I still try though. At home I pop a CD into my Discman and lie back on my bed hoping "Champagne Supernova" will soothe the angry beast, but it's not long before the headphones come off and I'm reaching in my nightstand for some pills I scored at a rave last weekend. In retrospect, maybe a song that talks about getting high wasn't the best choice. I pop two pills and lie back again, but the moment I close my eyes I hear tapping against the window. It's just the storm, I tell myself and keep my eyes closed, but I know the sound's coming from the opposite side of the room. Not from the window, but the mirror.
I fight the urge to look as long as I can, but can't shake the feeling I'm being watched. I know that feeling intimately now. Sometimes it wakes me from a dead sleep. I try to ignore it, but it's like the need for drugs, so I open my eyes, turn my head to the mirrored closet doors. Rather than my reflection, I see Josh lying on my bed. He stares back, then sits up, though I don't. The veins in his arms glow blue as he rises from the bed and walks over to his side of the mirror. Slowly, he begins tapping a finger against the glass. Tap . . . tap . . . tap.
I sit up, only to see the veins in my own arms glowing blue, too, and wonder if I'm losing my mind. What the hell were those pills I took? Grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV. Its light and sound fill the room, but the coverage from the O.J. Simpson trial fails to drown out the tapping. Josh starts to tap harder and faster until he's slamming both palms against the mirrored doors as hard as he can. The noise is deafening.
"Stop!" I yell.
He grins at me from the other side of the mirror, crooks a finger, beckoning me closer. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, but I go. When I get within two feet, the TV shuts off. I can't see a thing, but then light returns, though only in the mirror. I see the reflection of my open bedroom door, hall light streaming in. Josh walks through it, into the hall. He turns to look at me one last time before the door closes, leaving me again in darkness.
As my eyes adjust, I can see the mirror once more and my room reflected in it—everything but my own reflection. I go cold at the sight.
"No!" I yell, pounding my fists against the glass. It shatters and pieces fall to the floor so I'm standing barefoot in the dark with mirror shards scattered around me. I don't move for a long time.
Eventually, I have no choice. I take as wide a step as possible toward the bed, but still manage to impale my foot with broken mirror.
"Fuck!"
I reach the lamp on my nightstand and turn it on. There's blood on the rug, more drips from the sole of my foot. I pull the mirror shard out and from the one spot not covered in blood. In its reflection, Josh stares back at me—a sad expression on his face.
"I'm sorry," I say. "Whatever I did . . . I'm sorry."
Josh only shakes his head, so I throw the glass against the wall and pop a couple more pills. I lie back on my bed and clamp my eyes shut, ignoring the pain in my foot. I don't open them again. I don't move. I lie there, trying to remember what happened the night Josh died. Where did we get the drugs? What was in that needle?
Come morning, I'm alone. There's no mirror for Josh to watch me from, and I don't see him in the shards. Still, I don't want to deal with the mess. I need to get something to calm me down. Maybe smoke a session like we did in the old days.
Outside, the air's unseasonably cold for mid-August. I pull my jacket tight, but it makes no difference. Can't shake the cold that penetrates to my bones. As I reach the end of the street, I see the house Josh grew up in. Something compels me to go there, to talk to his parents, to tell them I'm sorry. But I knock and knock and no one comes to the door. I peer through the living room window, see someone sitting inside, staring out at nothing. It's clear they don't want to talk to me, so I leave. I don't blame them.
Somehow, I find myself at Josh's grave. I roll the joint against the headstone, light it, and take in the smoke, letting it out slowly.
"What the fuck happened to us?" I ask the grave. "I want my life back."
Angelica comes up behind me, lays some flowers on the grave. She doesn't look at me as she starts to cry.
"I've been trying to remember," I tell her. "What happened that night. I'm pretty sure I bought the drugs, but I don't remember where, or what was in that needle."
She doesn't respond, but sits on the patch of grass between Josh's grave and the one beside it. She runs her fingers along the grass and I feel a chill, like icy fingers doing the same along my back. I shiver, noticing Angelica doesn't seem to feel the cold. She wears a tank top, shoulders bare beneath her long, dark hair.
I think back to that night, the needle in Josh's arm, the life gone from his body, but in my memory his corpse raises its head, looks at me with dead eyes, holds out the arm with the needle like he's trying to tell me something. But all I see are the veins glowing blue in the dark of his bedroom. It seems so real, I nearly start to sob. Instead, I take another hit.
"Why did you have to shoot that crap?" Angelica says. "I told you not to."
I think she's talking to me, but she's staring at the headstone, at Josh's name. Then I remember . . . it was his idea. I bought the stuff, but he'd told me where to go. He'd prepared the needle. No . . . needles. One for each of us.
I look down at my arm and see my veins glowing blue, like in my memory. Then I look at Angelica—say her name—but she doesn't react. Only now do I see she's placed flowers on the grave next to Josh's, too. I walk around her, the air growing ever colder as I do, and look down at the headstone. I read my name.