Paz
2:02 a.m.
My gun is loaded with three bullets.
The first for the Death Guarder.
The second for me.
The third for Alano to finish me off if I don’t die.
Alano may have been right that we were fated to meet, but he was wrong about why. This isn’t about getting me to live. It’s
about giving me a better death. Instead of just killing myself and becoming the Hollywood Sign Boy, I can take out this Death
Guard son of a bitch too, and then Alano will live to tell the tale about how I saved his life. Who knows if saving the Death-Cast
heir will finally get me called a hero or if I’ll forever be remembered as a killer. Who cares. I won’t be alive to see my
name dragged online. I can only hope that my sacrifice makes Mom’s life better.
I’m about to stand up and shoot the Death Guarder when Alano is suddenly in my face. He sets a wrench and hammer down on the
floor. He’s gotta know my gun is how he gets out of here alive. He leans in, his cheek pressed against mine, sweat on sweat,
reminding me of the two times I’ve had sex, and how I feel more dead inside now than I did then.
“Don’t do this,” Alano whispers in my ear.
“I have to,” I say out loud.
Alano pulls back in a panic, wincing as if the Death Guarder heard me, but all I hear is the sound of more discordant gongs
and glass shattering. More noise. That’s all these Death Guarders are good for, making noise. They run their mouths about
how everyone should be pro-natural and scream for the end of Death-Cast. It’s time to make this Death Guarder shut up.
I’m getting up, but Alano shoves me back down. He pins my shoulders against the counter as I try fighting free. I don’t get
why he’s stopping me, I can put a bullet in this Death Guarder before he can hurt anyone.
Alano is tearing up, fear alive in his eyes, but he’s no longer looking around, his gaze is locked on to me. He leans in,
and I have this dumbass thought that he’s about to kiss me during this life-or-death moment, but he moves past my face and
his lips brush my ear.
“This is not who you are,” he says, soft enough that it’s for me and me only, but his words sit heavy in my chest, like catching
someone I wanna trust in a lie.
“You don’t know who I am,” I cry.
“Please stay alive and tell me,” Alano begs. He relaxes his grip on my shoulders, and his hands slowly slide down my body—my
collarbone, my pounding heart, my rib cage—until his hands are wrapped around mine. He’s trying to pry my fingers apart, but
my grip on the gun is so tight that he’s gonna have to use that wrench on me. “Give me the gun. I’ll take care of you.”
At first, I think Alano means that he’ll shoot me, right here, right now. “No, just let me kill him, you’ll be safe, just make sure I die, please—”
“No,” Alano interrupts, pulling back so I see the tears sliding down his face. “If you have to die tonight, live longer so
I know who I’m grieving.”
For a moment, I swear I’ve died. It’s like my brain and body have shut down. My hands relax open so Alano can take the gun,
but I can’t be dead because my heart and lungs are still pumping, keeping me alive longer for my Last Friend. Even with danger
literally around the corner, Alano is still protecting my life, even above his own. He’s seeing something in me, or not something,
but everything. I thought I was catching him in a lie about him not knowing who I am when really I was the liar pretending
to be nothing but a killer who deserves to die.
Heavy footsteps approach the counter, and glass shatters, raining onto us. This is the closest the Death Guarder has gotten
to us. We have maybe a minute, but probably just seconds before we’re discovered.
Alano stares at the gun in his hands, like he’s trying to figure out if he has what it takes to protect us or if we’re both
about to die together.
I can’t watch. I close my eyes, tears squeezing out as I imagine Mom and Rolando cradling their new baby. A happy life, like
I never got to have. As destruction continues around me, I brace myself for death, knowing I’ll find happiness there; I just
hope happiness won’t hurt too much.
Then I hear the sirens.
I feel heavy footsteps on the floor becoming lighter.
And I open my eyes to see Alano peeking over the counter.
“He’s gone,” Alano says, shaking glass out of his hair. He shoves the gun into my backpack, throws it over his shoulder, and
stands up. “We need to go too.”
I’m frozen. Is that it? We survived and now we’re gonna keep living?
“, come on, the cops can’t find out we have a gun on us.”
Just like when we were on top of the Hollywood Sign, I take Alano’s hand. We run around the counter and through the shop that
looks like it’s been hit by a tornado with its flipped-over tables and glass sparkling on the floor. We jump over a disemboweled
grandfather clock and run out the door, bumping right into Margie.
“Oh, you’re both okay,” Margie says, especially shocked to see me alive.
I’m still shocked too.
“We’re okay, but we have to go,” Alano says.
Margie points at the police car, a block away. “The police will need a statement—”
“He doesn’t have time,” Alano interrupts, holding up my hand. “Who knows how long the police will take to question him. Or
worse.”
The police might mistake me for the criminal. The criminal I would’ve been without Alano.
“Get out of here,” Margie says with tears in her eyes, pushing us forward, giving us the present of time.
I don’t feel innocent lying about my End Day or running away from the scene of the crime with a gun on us, but that doesn’t stop us from returning to Hollywood Boulevard, where our feet pound the brass stars for blocks and blocks, my fingers locked around Alano’s the entire time.
2:08 a.m.
After failing to catch his breath once we stop running, Alano finally lets go of my hand to use his inhaler. He’s still standing
there, but not being held on to makes me feel like I’m a balloon that’s about to float away into the night sky. That thought
is bullshit, and I know it. Not because I’m not a balloon, but because if I was, Alano would climb a building’s fire escape
and leap off the roof to catch me, even if I’m better off among the stars.
Once he’s able to fully breathe, Alano pockets his inhaler and we walk off, farther and farther from his car. I don’t know
where he’s taking me and if he even knows himself. He’s asked me if I’m okay and doesn’t push me when I don’t answer. Other
than that, we’re both quiet, just keeping each other company. Every time we’re crossing a street, there’s an urge to be closer
to him, maybe even reach for his hand again. If I told Alano that holding his hand made me feel secure, he’d give it to me
in a heartbeat, but I can’t give in, not when I’m so close to getting what I really want, and definitely not when I’m gonna
need Alano to help me get it.
I check the time: 2:10. Forty minutes until I’m free to die.
Until Alano has to pop the balloon.
He sees me reading the time on my phone. “Any last thing you want to do?”
I don’t answer.
“Do you want me to choose?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
I’m not trying to be difficult, and Alano must know this, because he’s not pushing me to open up and be honest. That incident
at Present-Time was intense and there’s a lot I’m processing in my head about who I really am and what I really want. I bet
Alano is already planning on activating Death-Cast again after all these close calls.
I follow Alano down some restaurant’s drive-through and I realize he’s brought me to the Hollywood DIEner, where the staff
dress up as famous dead characters. I’ve never been before, but considering I started the night on top of the Hollywood Sign
and then did the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Hollywood DIEner feels like the perfect place to end my night and life.
The host is dressed like Death if Death bought his robes at CVS during Halloween season. “Welcome to the Hollywood DIEner,
mortals,” he says in some silly spooky voice. “If you do not wish to know the fates of certain famous souls floating around
tonight, be sure to peruse my Scroll of Spoiled Souls before DIE-ning with us.”
The scroll being pinned to a clipboard feels like bigger bullshit than the costume, but I read it anyway:
The Scroll of Spoiled Souls
Tonight’s production will contain spoilers for the following movies:
Star Wars: Episode VI—Return of the Jedi (1983)
The Lion King (1994)
Armageddon (1998)
Avengers: Endgame (2019)
“We’re good to dine,” Alano says. He doesn’t check with me, but there’s no reason I should care about spoilers for any movie
if I’m trying to kill myself.
Death hands us menus. “Go dig your own graves, a soul will haunt you very soon.”
“Huh?”
Death drops the accent. “Sit wherever you like. A server will be right with you.”
The dining area is lowly lit with plastic candelabras at every table. We pass a waiter who looks more like the Cowardly Lion than Mufasa as we get a booth in the back, close to the kitchen, where Iron Man comes out and delivers ice cream sundaes to a young boy and an older man. I’m guessing one of them has to be a Decker, there’s no other reason you have a kid out this late unless someone is dying. I don’t wanna think about which one is the Decker, but I can’t stop my brain from obsessing over the intrusive thought that I hope it’s the kid so he can be spared the misery of growing up in this terrible world where people kill for no good reason and people hate you when you kill for good reason.
“Anything look good to you?” Alano asks, reading his menu.
The top of the menu says “FOOD TO DIE FOR” but there’s an all-you-can-eat special for Deckers at the bottom that says “FOOD
BEFORE YOU DIE.” There’s also the disclaimer that Deckers must disclose all allergies and sign a waiver before being served
any food.
Darth Vader approaches our table with a notepad. “The Force is strong with this table.” He bows his head at Alano. “I am not your father, but I admire your father’s work. You may share your order with me for I am your... waiter.”
There’s no way in hell I would ever be desperate enough to act that I’d work here.
“Impossible burger, sweet potato fries, and a Coke, please,” Alano orders.
“Coke, not Pepsi? You belong to the Dark Side,” Darth Vader says, writing down the order. “You?”
I don’t answer and slide the menu away.
“I find your lack of appetite disturbing,” Darth Vader says.
Alano hands Darth Vader our menus. “Sorry, Vader, my friend here is a Decker.”
I can’t see his eyes behind the helmet, but Darth Vader is definitely staring at me. “Sorry you will be lost,” he says in his regular voice, breaking character. There’s a time and a place for playing dead in the Hollywood DIEner apparently. Darth Vader leaves that waiver and a pen on the table before vanishing into the kitchen to get Alano’s food ready.
Alano is looking around the restaurant when he says, “Halloween 2017. That’s when the Hollywood DIEner opened. My family was
invited to the grand opening, but my father thought it was too gimmicky. I was relieved we didn’t have to go. Halloween is
my favorite holiday. I can put on a mask and have a regular night with my best friends. Anyway, it was our first Halloween
dressing up together, and we did a group costume. I was Spider-Man and Rio and Ariana were Venom and Black Cat. I even brought
my dog, Bucky, and dressed him up with spider legs—”
“I was gonna kill that Death Guarder,” I finally say, like I’ve been holding my breath forever, and it feels like coming out
to my mom, who had already suspected I was gay.
Alano might already know this about me, but for all the shit he remembers, he seems to have forgotten this.
“Tonight is supposed to be my End Day, not yours. I would’ve killed that man to save you, but you stopped me. Do you have
a death wish too?”
“No, I don’t have a death wish. If anything, I have a life wish—life wishes for the both of us,” Alano says. His brown and
green eyes watch me as I vibrate in anger. “There are two reasons I stopped you from killing that raider. The first is not
wanting to give the Death Guard a martyr.”
“Martyr? But he was no one,” I say.
“Martyrdom would’ve made him someone. A household name. The Death Guard lies enough, but if they could point to a martyr that was undeniably killed by one of us—the Death-Cast heir or a boy known for killing a man who never even signed up for Death-Cast—it could threaten the election this fall.” Alano takes a deep breath and softly adds, “Maybe even Death-Cast forever.”
I’m about to ask how one death can have that much power when I remember the unforgettable bloodstain on my life. One death
can change someone’s life. The death of a martyr can change everyone’s lives. I’m so tainted that I can’t even save people
right. I would’ve killed that Death Guarder and then shot myself, thinking I was dying a hero, but really I would’ve ruined
the world that Mom and Rolando will be raising their kid in.
“What’s the other reason you didn’t let me kill him?” I ask. I wait to hear why I’m an even bigger fuckup than I realize.
Alano eyes my hands from across the table. “For as long as you live, even if you die soon, I don’t want you to get any more
blood on your hands.”
I reflect on him holding my gun. “What about your hands?”
Alano tenses. “What about them?”
“Were you gonna shoot him?”
“If I had to, but I wouldn’t shoot to kill.”
“See, you’re not a killer.”
“I’m one because of you,” Alano says sadly. He stares at the ceiling, unable to face me. “Or I will be soon.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty for honoring your deal. I gave you hours to turn my life around, but I still wanna die,” I say, ready to break down and cry. I definitely have to look away from Alano because I can’t watch his eyes keep filling with tears. “Look, you might not even need to kill me. Maybe I’ll get it right. But if I don’t, just lie about shooting me in self-defense or some shit like that. No one would doubt you. My legacy is killing.”
I hate this world and everyone in it. Except Mom and Rolando. The new kid.
And Alano.
I definitely hate Darth Vader as he returns to our table with a tray of food and soda. “I’m sorry, but I need that waiver
signed before setting this down,” he says in his regular voice. “Restaurant policy.”
I’m about to sign the waiver so Alano can get his food when he stops me.
“We don’t need it,” Alano says, waving Darth Vader anyway.
“You can eat, I don’t care.”
“We have twenty minutes before we’re supposed to leave. I know how we’re spending this time.”
“How?”
Alano flips the waiver over where it’s blank on the back. “Write the obituary you expect to be published after you die tonight.”
“What, why—”
“Time is ticking, .” Alano hands me the pen. “Write.”