November 19 - 4:54 pm

Civil Twilight

He floats in and out of consciousness. His head has the weight of a stone on the end of his neck. It’s jammed into the crook of two twisted roots. A knot digs into his back. Not a pain exactly; an awareness, a sensitivity. Rain falls through the branches of the tree above him and he blinks as drops strike his eyes, swallows when they fall into his open mouth. The drops fail to slake his thirst. He wants to move, find a spot more comfortable, a place with more flowing water. No strength. He tries to move his arms, but he has no arms. No legs. All he has is a head and a knot in the back. The rain pitters and patters against the soft fall of fir needles around him and he’s just a head with a bullet in it.

He remembers another place, somewhere far away. Stern faces and latex gloves. “Let me look at your eye. What happened?” He can’t recall what he told them. He can’t remember if he said anything at all. All he remembers is needing to get away. He’s the ace in the hole. But everything has gotten so mixed up.

A snap draws his attention, brings him back to the moment. The rain. Another snap, a footstep in the darkness. It isn’t all dark. The sun has set, the clouds closed in, but a faint glow still filters through the trees from the west. Skin had once told him what it was called, a word. Two words. Skin used to try to teach him things, stupid shit like you learn in school. Stupid, but more interesting coming from Skin. Like, the waning light after sunset is called civil twilight. That’s it. In the fading civil twilight someone is walking, snap-crack through the trees. He can’t turn his head. No arms or legs. He blinks and swallows rain and listens to the crack-snap in the civil twilight, and then a form materializes out of the shadows.

A head. But not a head. Something is wrong with it. Misshapen, distorted. He swallows and tries to speak.

“Civil twilight.”

A man. He recognizes a man. White face, staring eyes, shaggy hair. But something wrong. The head.

“Your head.”

Round on the one side, caved in on the other. Like someone scooped out the right side of his skull with an ice cream scoop. The fellow doesn’t seem to care. He smiles a haphazard smile and one eye rolls around all on its own.

“Your head ...”

“S-s-s-shhhh ...”

Eager thinks the fellow might say more, but at that moment a shot rings out from up above, then another. Eager hears shouting and screaming and he knows it all went wrong. She’s screaming. He tries to move, but the roots hold his head in place and the knot digs into his back and he has no arms and legs. He feels the fear, though. The fear bubbles through him and rain falls into his eyes as he strains against the inexorable pressure of gravity.

And he fails. He looks at the stranger, and in that strange, sloppy gaze he feels a moment of hope. Maybe this fellow, head awonk, can do something. Save her. “You ... she—” But the man reaches out, strokes Eager’s cheek. He shakes his half-head and grins, eyes sad in the civil twilight under the trees. Eager feels himself start to fall away. He can do nothing. Skin can do nothing. She’s screaming, yet the man strokes his face until his fear slides away. He closes his eyes and swallows rain and listens for the pitter-pat under the trees. But all he hears now is the stranger’s voice.

“S-s-s-sleep.”