The snapping of someone’s fingers in front of my face brings me back to reality.

“Jordan, hey,” says the soothing voice of the petite Asian girl sitting next to me. Her glasses are hanging dangerously low on her nose, and her brown eyes flit all across my face, searching for any signs of discomfort. Her fingers drum nervously on her desk, similarly to mine. Nobody else in the classroom is paying attention to our exchange, mostly because there are only two other students in the classroom at the moment.

“Jordan,” she repeats, more sternly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I look at her for a moment, still partly disconnected. It takes me a few seconds to come back to earth completely and process what she’s asking.

That’s right. It’s today.

I stumble over my words and fail to get anything worthwhile out of my mouth. She frowns at me—much like Sarah does when I tell her I’m way too lazy to do anything and just want to sleep—then pushes her glasses back up her nose. She tucks a brown hair from her messy bun behind her ear and sighs.

“Jordan, seriously, we get it,” she starts with her hand on my arm. She’s trying to comfort me, and I appreciate that, but I’m not all there. “If you need to go home or leave school early, nobody’s going to blame you. Most of us know what happened.”

Finally, I get my mouth to speak properly and protest. “I’m telling you, Mae, I’m going to be just fine.”

Mae bites the inside of her mouth. I can tell that she wants to say something more, but the teacher has just arrived along with most of the students in this class. I look at her one last time as the teacher settles down and starts taking attendance.

“Carson Black.”

“Here.”

“Mae,” I say reassuring. “I’ll make it to the end of the school day. I promise you that.”

Something in her eyes tells me that my best friend just isn’t convinced.

“Mae Li.”

“Present,” she mumbles, her eyes fixed on a point on her desk.

God damnit.

I never really saw the point in counseling and therapy for people who have suffered something traumatic in the past, but are just fine. Like me. I mean, the incident happened years ago, and I’m coping just fine with it right now. Not that I go to counseling, but some of my friends think it would do me good to go.

What good would it do me to dig up painful memories and spill them out to someone who is paid to deal with my bullshit? They could be thinking about what to make for dinner while I rant about my parents and how much I fucking miss my mom. I find it easier to talk to friends than therapists, anyways.

“I’m going now,” I tell Mae, placing a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. When she processes what I’ve told her, a look of understanding washes over her face and she nods, smiling sadly at me. Mae is one of the few people who know the actual story, not the bullshit they fed everyone else to get them off my case.

I take my backpack and start the trek to the nearest taxi stop. I would call one to pick me up from school, but then people would ask where I’m going, and I would prefer to make this journey with as little disturbance as possible. I slip away from the after-school crowd easily, since everyone else is busy talking about what they’re going to do on the upcoming or That Test. The only ones who notice me leave are Mae and another friend of mine called Laurie, a jock with jet black hair and the biggest crush on one of the ‘nerds’. Laurie doesn’t know the actual story, but that’s only because he’s one of the more popular people and if he gets drunk and spills the beans on accident, everyone will know.

When I was in eighth grade, my mother was murdered in front of my eyes and my father walked out on me, leaving me an orphan of sorts. My mother had a woman named Sarah written down as my guardian should I be left with no biological parents to look after me. Since after that night my father completely disappeared, Sarah dropped everything and moved into our house to look after me. She’s been a great caretaker the past four years, and I wouldn’t trade her for anyone else. I’m actually glad that I had Sarah looking after me and not one of mom’s other friends.

I reach the stop, and enter one of the taxis. I promptly tell him the name of the cemetery, and he silently drives out into the street and on the path to my destination. In this town, if you so much as mention the cemetery, people give you those sad eyes. Even taxi drivers who are usually talkative remain silent during those drives. They even take a bit off your fare because they feel bad for you. I don’t like it when people give me that look, the one that says they’re sorry for whatever happened even if they don’t know. I could be visiting the grave of the person I murdered, but they’d never know that.

I look out the window the entire ride, silently reading the names of shops to myself and counting how long it takes to get there compared to the other years and visits. We pass the clock tower that’s right before the graveyard, and I prepare my money to pay the greasy-haired driver. He stops in the parking lot, and I give him the exact cost before climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind me.

I stop in front of the gate of the cemetery and look up. This place has always had a sort of ominous feel to it, even after all this time. It’s like the location itself radiates spookiness. I sigh and tie my hair back in a ponytail with a hair band I keep around my wrist for emergencies. As I walk through the rows of graves, I notice someone new is visiting. Besides the usual people sitting in front of graves with flowers and talking to their dead relatives, there’s a figure I don’t recognize leaning on a tree. It appears to be male, and he looks like he’s watching everyone. I disregard him after a moment of confusion and move on to my mother’s tombstone.

I sit down in front of it and sigh deeply. ‘Here Lies Alexa Fawcett 1973-2010’, it reads. There are a couple of dried up roses left from the last time I brought flowers. I smile softly and think back to how mom used to tuck me in bed after reading me a bedtime story. She used to kiss my forehead softly before pulling the covers of to my chin. Then she would softly sing, “Good night, sweetheart,” before leaving the room and me with a while.

“Hi, mom,” I say after a while of reminiscing. “I’m back again.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring any flowers this time,” I joke, looking at the roses. “I know how much you love lilies, but Sarah insisted that we bring roses last time. And I came directly from school today.”

I deeply exhale and close my eyes. “It’s all a bit hard to believe, you get me? I mean, you died four years ago, today. I can still remember seeing you lifeless on the floor and hearing the sirens while I hid in the cupboard in the kitchen, but I can’t grasp that you’re gone. I’m never going to see you alive again.”

I chuckle. “I’m sorry mom, I know I’m probably repeating the same things I say every year, but I can’t help it! Today gets me really deep,” I laugh. “But anyways, no, I don’t have a boyfriend yet. I know that’s the first thing you would ask if you could talk. I’m not even interested in anyone! I mean, I’m still making fun of Laurie for liking that one girl who’s always reading a book in the library. Now she’s reading A Clockwork Orange, and you always wanted me to read that book, isn’t that right? Well I did it, and I wanted to go up to her like, ‘Hey, that’s a good book’!”

I continue, despite a passerby giving me a strange look. “Mae’s doing great. Her grades are sky high, obviously, so she’s satisfied with her life at the moment. And Sarah’s great too. We watched The Best Of Me last week, and 22 Jump Street the week before that, so yeah, I’m doing great with Sarah. She wanted me to say hi to you for her, and that she hopes you have a great garden overflowing with blooming flowers up there.”

“And no word from dad, so we got that going for us too,” I mumble, not wanting anyone else to hear that. “I really miss you mom. I just wish you didn’t have to go the way you did.”

That’s my cue to leave, but instead of leaving, I sit there and stare off blankly into the distance, just above the tombstone. I think about Sarah and what she’s going to make for dinner tonight, and I think about Mae with her studying habits and her grades. I think about Laurie and Tessa, and I think about the figure watching the people in the cemetery. I think about my dad, and I wonder what he might be doing after all these years. I wonder, is he even alive now?

“Excuse me,” comes an unfamiliar voice from above me, and I look up to see the figure who was watching everyone. He looks about my age, to be completely honest, and he has dark brown hair and eyes. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and he’s shifting his feet in his black boots. He isn’t wearing a scarf, which surprises me, considering how cold it’s become now that it’s late October. I realize that he’s talking to me.

“Uh, yes,” I stutter in surprise. Why would he talk to me?

“Okay,” he says. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m really confused and don’t know how I’m supposed to express what I want to say.”

I nod slowly, noticing the slight stubble on his face.

“Well, you looked lost, and I’m pretty damn lost myself,” he says, then pauses. I’m now thoroughly confused. Does he mean lost as in not knowing where I am or the other kind of lost? I tilt my head to the side, and he takes this as a sign to continue.

“So I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to the bar and drinking out our sorrows until we can’t hear our demons calling our names anymore?” he suggests, and I stop short.

“Are you trying to hook up with me?” I ask in disbelief, and his eyes widen in shock at the accusation.

“God, no!” he protests. “Who picks up girls in a cemetery? That’s just... wrong.”

I narrow my eyes at this boy with parted lips. “Then what do you want?”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. I can see the shaky breath he lets out in the cold air. “I just want to offer some release to another haunted individual. Release with company,” he explains, and his offer now makes sense.

For some reason, I’m drawn to him. He seems nice enough for someone I just met in the cemetery, and his offer is genuine, so I smile. “Jordan,” I reply, introducing myself.

The boy smiles back at me warmly and holds out a hand to help me get up. “Sawyer,” he says, then pulls me up on my feet. “My name’s Sawyer.”

Sawyer is different than most of the people that I’ve met in my life. He seems to never run out of things to say, and our conversation on the way to the bar flows easily. He doesn’t make any subtle moves, such as wrapping an arm around my shoulder, but he doesn’t act closed off either. It’s like I’ve known him for a while, yet he knows what his boundaries are and respects them more than half of the guys I’ve met.

“Where are we going, anyways?” I ask curiously. He’s mentioned that I might like it, but hasn’t mentioned what bar it is.

Sawyer glances at me from the corner of his eye and smirks. “Just a place I always go to when I need to forget. And I need to forget often.”

I laugh with him, and we continue to talk until Sawyer stops me in front of a small looking place. He opens the door and kindly ushers me in. The place looks like an older bar, and has a homely feel to it. It isn’t crowded, but it isn’t quite empty either. I can see why Sawyer comes here often as he leads me to the bar and sits on a stool. I sit near him with one seat in between us.

“Nikola!” Sawyer shouts, and a portly man comes out from the back. He has a moustache and beard, and his face seems to light up when he sees Sawyer sitting at the other side of the bar.

“Ah, our favorite customer!” the man shouts in a sort of foreign accent. I can’t pinpoint it, but I assume that it’s European while Sawyer orders two of something. A drink is placed in front of me and I look skeptically at the boy next to me.

“What is this?” I ask. It looks like plain old beer.

“It is the drink of my people,” Sawyer replies with a hint of humor in his tone. The drink of... his people?

“Your people, huh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Sawyer smirks and takes a large gulp of his.

“Czech beer, Jordan,” he replies. “Czech beer.”

“I see,” I reply, surprised by the revelation that Sawyer is actually Czech. He walks, talks and looks American enough, so I wonder if he’s part Czech and not completely.

“Part-Czech,” Sawyer clarifies, as if he can read my thoughts. He continues drinking slowly, and I try the drink. It actually isn’t half bad. “My father was Czech, my mother was British, and I was born here. Not in this town, but in the United States of ‘Murica.”

I laugh with beer in my mouth, and end up making a snorting noise and spilling a bit through my lips. Sawyer chuckles and rubs my back.

“Oh, Jordan,” he teases. “Can’t hold your alcohol? I assumed you could.”

I glare at him once I swallow and hit his shoulder lightly. He seems confused for a second, but then smiles along. He gestures for Nikola to come over again, and whispers something in the old man’s ear. The two of them laugh heartily, and Sawyer then grins at me, showing his teeth. I can’t help but smile back at him. It would seem wrong not to do so. I finish my beer, and Nikola promptly brings the both of us seconds.

“Don’t worry,” Sawyer assures with a warm smile. “It all goes on my tab.”

“You have a tab?” I ask, genuinely curious. With every word he says I fall deeper into curiosity.

“Of course not, but I help around whenever I’m sober and have nothing to do,” he admits, running his fingers through his hair and drinking.

“That’s…” I start, but I can’t seem to find the words to finish. I want to say ‘That’s noble of you,’ but is it really? Sawyer seems to sense my inner turmoil and licks his lips.

“Productive?” he suggests, and I chuckle because even though that doesn’t capture what I want to express, it’s still something.

“Something along the lines of that,” I tell him, and his eyes twinkle.

After a couple more drinks, I’m starting to feel a bit tipsy, but Sawyer looks completely fine. He sticks his tongue out at me. “Lightweight,” he mutters mockingly, and I punch his shoulder, getting him to laugh loudly. “So, Jordan. Tell me your story.”

I smirk. “My what?” I ask.

“Your story,” he clarifies. “Tell me about your demons. What do you have to forget?”

I watch Sawyer for a while, wondering what he’s thinking and where this sudden wonder has come from. I think back to how he helped me up and asked me to join him here and realize that it was always there. He slowly licks his lips and breathes out, his brown eyes examining my face.

“My mom is dead. She was murdered,” I finally say, after a few moments of just silence and watching him examine me. It’s like he’s trying to commit my features to memory, just in case we meet again. His sharp intake of breath tells me that isn’t quite what he was expecting to hear. “I was there when she was killed. I saw it happen.”

“Fuck,” he mumbles, and his facial expression contorts to a pained one. “I’m sorry, Jordan.”

I down the rest of my beer and laugh. “The funny thing is, on that same day my dad walked out on us, and if that’s a coincidence is just the million dollar question, isn’t it?” I exclaim, startling him. He frowns and places a hand on my shoulder.

“You don’t have to go on,” he assures with a sympathetic smile. “I get it. You’ll regret spilling your secrets to a complete stranger.”

His care actually makes me smile, and I stop speaking. “How about you?” I ask. “Why do you need to forget?”

His face falls, and I wonder if I should’ve waited a bit. “I watched someone die, too,” he said. “It wasn’t even my fault, but it feels like it.”

“I’m sorry, Sawyer,” I say, as a knee-jerk reflex. I immediately want to take it back, because feeling sorry for someone doesn’t change a thing. You can feel all the pity in the world for someone, but it doesn’t change what’s happened to them.

“My girlfriend left me because of it,” Sawyer admits. “He was her brother.”

Sawyer stops to let out a shaky breath. “He was my best friend, and she left me when I needed her most.”

“Half of my friends abandoned me because they didn’t want to be associated with the depressed orphan girl,” I tell him in an attempt to make him feel better. It works, and he tries to smile again.

“I think we’re going to need something stronger, yeah?” he suggests with a strained grin.

“Stronger?” I question, and he calls for Nikola. The old bartender turns around and looks at us, ready to bring us what we need. Sawyer grins impishly.

“Přineste nám vodku!” he shouts, and Nikola shakes his head at my companion with mock disgust. I look at Sawyer in complete shock, assuming that he’s spoken Czech.

“Не зборувам Чешки, дете!” Nikola shouts back in return, but brings us two glasses of vodka a few minutes later, nonetheless. I register that the language the Nikola speaks is different than Sawyer’s Czech, but I’ve never heard either language before. Sawyer seems to be enjoying Nikola’s annoyance greatly, much to my surprise. His childishness is a bit of fresh air, and he can keep it up even during such a dark moment.

“Well, Jordan,” Sawyer says, picking up his glass. “It’s time for a toast.”

“First, what language does Nikola speak?” I ask, picking up my own glass.

“Nikola is Macedonian. It’s a small country north of Greece,” Sawyer explains. “Our languages are similar, but still really distant.”

I nod. “And now, a toast,” Sawyer starts.

“To unstoppable deaths,” he says. “And the demons that haunt us for ever after them.”

We clink our glasses and drink.