Free South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart

not a game for people with anger management issues.”
    “Will you at least stay out with us? If ever there was a night that we all needed to be together, this is it.”
    “Goodnight.”
    He sighs, more hurt than angry. “Night.”
    I grab a pink flashlight from the flashlight bin and head into the woods, the sound and the light fading behind me, until I’m on a walkway far enough out that I can click off the light and the world is so dark I can’t see a thing. Not my hand in front of my face, not the ground under my feet, not the trees looming over me. Not even the stars. The canopy is too thick.
    Of course, as soon as I turn the light off, as soon as it’s nothing but dark, I see it. Like my vision switched over to an old movie. The hole, and Wilson’s body crumbled into it, rainwater pooling where his arm was pressed up against the wall of it. His glass doll eyes, staring out at nothing, and the reason for that was me.
    The wave hits.
    Pushing me under. Roaring in my ears, threatening to pull me down into the dark. Filling my eyes and nose and throat. I’m tumbling, can’t tell up from down.
    I fumble with the flashlight, try to flick the plastic button on the side to turn it on, drop it. It clatters to the ground and I fall to my knees, sweeping my hands around, trying to find it. By the time I do, I’m crying. Still not breathing, my lungs about to burst.
    And then it’s there, in my hands. I click it on and I’m in the woods. A hostel in the middle of Georgia. Not underwater. Not being pulled deeper. Just in the woods.
    I pull my legs up and sit there for a bit until I’ve calmed down. Until my chest doesn’t feel like it’s swelling with water.
    Then I get up and walk.
    No monster bugs on the steps into the bus. I do a quick sweep with the flashlight when I get in, to make sure none of them broke in with plans to kill me while I was out. This is a thing that concerns me. I pull the cord that turns on the rope light running along the edges of the ceiling. The sun was good today. The solar panels soaked up enough I could squeak out a few hours of juice, not that I plan to be up long.
    Underneath the bunk there are two empty plastic whiskey jugs, plus the one on the table that’s half-full. I climb on top of the bunk and take a long, deep swig. It’s flat and sharp and hot.
    Man. Nothing says rock bottom like plastic jug whiskey.
    I look around at the battered metal on the inside of the bus, at my little pile of belongings. My ridiculous suspicions and my sad, quiet evening alone. My head already swimming a little. I reach up and turn off the light so that it’s pitch black. A slight breeze drifts through the netted window, along with the sound of insects and rustling leaves.
    And those two sets of eyes, peeking through the window.
    The silence is all-encompassing. Living in New York City, you live with the feeling of a television being on in the next room. An electric hum you can’t hear, but you can feel, even when it’s quiet. Even in Portland there was a little of that. The hum never stops. I always wondered what I would learn about myself when the humming stopped and the world went silent and I couldn’t hear anything but what’s inside myself. The things the hum was covering.
    I don’t like it.
    The jug of whiskey seems heavy enough that maybe I’ll sleep through the night. But I’m going to need to pick up more. I take another pull and pray it’s enough to drown out my dreams.

M y mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking on a dirty dishrag and my skull is a size too small. I turn my head and the muscles in my neck tighten in protest.
    No nightmares though. That much is a victory.
    I swing my legs off the cot and kick the empty jug of whiskey. I pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and put on my sneakers. On instinct I reach for my cell but remember it’s at the bottom of my bag, tucked away. I’m still not used to not carrying it all the time, though I do enjoy this moment of realization