“ If the world was ending, I think I would grab some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a bunch of water, and I’d probably just… I’d probably go crazy.”
 — Tyler, The Creator

Let’s connect the dots, let’s start at the beginning. There must be apologies for the confusion earlier, please understand this mythology is still being created, in real-time, in front of both of us. It should be mentioned first that they shouldn’t have met. It was a total tragedy of coincidence. Milton’s mom was out shopping with him, back when she still went outside, and of course the boy was throwing a tantrum. She called out his full name. Then his own mother’s ears perked up hearing that — turned out that his middle name was the same as Eliot’s.

(The tree waited. The boy stood underneath the tree, throwing a red rubber ball at her trunk, and then catching it. He was alone. Throwing the ball, over and over, and over and over. Eventually, the boy threw the ball so hard that he couldn’t catch it as it bounced off the tree. He threw the ball so hard, in fact, that after it bounded it just kept going higher and higher into the air, until it began flying. The boy watched as the red rubber ball turned into a tiny little speck in the sky. The tree was still waiting.)

The kettle finally started signing as Eliot was waiting beside it, shivering patiently. The water-boiler was plugged into the extension cord, that slithered like a yellow never-ending snake out from the dark bathroom into the darker living room, out through the unlocked back door, and finally plugged into the neighbouring house beside his own. It was the only way he was able to take a bath back then. Filling up the kettle repeatedly, excited to be in a warm bath of water even if it only went up to his tiny calves.

Why would you ever give up? It makes no sense. If you really want something, you work for it until it happens.

That’s one of the things that was so irritating about Milton. Exasperating. He just surrendered to the universe so easily, completely submitting to the randomness of white noise. Here’s a good example: when you’re failing class, what do you do? You get on your knees and grovel. What you don’t do, is shrug your shoulders and say that whatever shitty teacher you have doesn’t accept late submissions or extra work, and subsequently resign.

Before what happened, Milton was relaxed all the time about everything. His dumb smirk would make you pull your hair out. Then it flipped like a switch. Everything had to be put on the back burner when he started taking care of Milton. Why even try to apply to university? He was devoted.

And what did that get him? A knife in the stomach.

What does he remember? That it was only in morning and night when it appeared. That’s what the two boys noticed together, as the wheat beneath them swayed. His hand was warm as they were slightly touching. The unharvestable crops under their shoes were waiting patiently.

The Orange Bowl of Fire. The sun was dipping into the Earth, or was it being pulled away from her? It was difficult to remember if this was during the sunrise or sunset. Just minor details. Of course, the mechanics get lost.

Some people are just seasons — a saying only understood then. That’s what is remembered now. As good as things are, they aren’t in fact forever. He would probably realize — a lot later — that all the best things are the short-lived ones.

The days were going to get shorter from here on out. It was right before eleventh grade. He had worked the entire summer to afford the car. Driving them to this secret place, last minute. This was before the accident, before his license getting humiliatingly revoked. Eliot pulled his hand away.

We’re born to reminiscence and regret. It’s in our blood. All these moments, tempting us to remember them instead of live in them. Our soft flesh would be exposed if we started lived in them. It’s safer to just remember. Who cares if we trick ourselves into thinking that things won’t change?

His older brother just graduated Valedictorian a few months ago. He knew that his Mom chewed him out for not being more like him. His graduation speech was basically all these platitudes that were running around them, now. Encircled by an infinite supply of fresh and unforgiving pinewood, the last people on earth in this blonde field.

His older brother just killed himself a few months ago, right after. Maybe that speech was supposed to be more of a suicide note — he didn’t leave one. Nobody else could understood what he was going through. Eliot knew he had to drop everything else and take care of him. It was good that he was pouring himself into work and keeping himself busy — yeah. Milton was still making the same weird jokes as usual. Things were going alright.

But then moments like this happened. They were alone and heavy; he was grieving and feral. You’d be a shitty person if you took advantage of that kind of situation. That’s why he pulled away.

And then Milton kissed him.

And then he beat the shit out of Eliot.

And then he told him that if he told anybody –-–- well, I’m sure you get the picture. By this point, none of this really changed anything. That’s what the boy remembers.

How awful it was to have those god-like mountains in front of you every single day — especially when the air was so clear it was sharp, and it was cold, and it hurt? People come here from around the world to look at them. The collateral damage of tectonic plates shifting. Just the sight can make your knees weak,

What matters? Being able to put on a convincing illusion that any of this matters. Forgetting all the shitty things in your life to have this fill your mind instead. Just for a moment, even.

The sheen and shine from the pearl-pink on top of her wet fingernails put a smug grin on her face, making her fingers dance, it was the first time she had ever painted her nails herself.

That’s when it had started. The thoughts. The intruders in his head. Running around, running endlessly. It was a certainty that this was a bad thing. That this was something he needed to rectify — that he needed to correct. A passing phase — one that could be course-corrected with the winds, sure.

The only noise that could be heard was the wind, funny enough. The chaplain sat on the wooden bench outside of the church’s front steps. The cobblestone felt like marble. It should shine just as brightly if it was polished, he was sure of that. The winds were sharp but usual. Autumn was merciless sans chinooks. The air will hit your face hard enough to feel like water.

Eliot fidgeted with the cross in his hand, imprecisely twirling it between his fingers. He had been rehearsing this conversation, his tongue and mouth felt like the bloody feet of ballet dancers at Carnage Hall. There was an answer for everything. Real answers. No, they weren’t excuses. If the church — if God

— could understand where he was coming from, then why would he still even need to be worried about his parents?

But still, he couldn’t just talk to God about this. He needed a proxy. He had never even tried to talk to God before, it was too late for him to start now.

There was a pause after Eliot finally finished, breathless as he panted into the wind. The older man shook his head before looking down at Eliot.

“You’ve memorized the scripture more than I have.”