Apples and Clouds
by Zachary Wilhide
Midway through the
alleyway, Derek’s thoughts and emotions smashed together. He was looking up at
a cheese-faced moon smiling shadows on the licorice-black fire escapes,
remembering the night his mom went away.
Enrique
had told him
to stay away from the stove, but Enrique was at the gym and his mom had just
closed the bedroom door so she could smoke her medicine. Derek wanted his mom
to feel better—she was sick a lot—and soup needed to be hot. He’d clicked on
the gas burner and the hot blue flame surprised him before he could even get
the bowl. It surprised the towels lying on the stove too. Soon, the flame had
spread all over the kitchen. Derek cried out for his mother, but his cries were
choked away by the smoke. Just as Derek’s world was fading to darkness, a man
in a banana yellow suit with an elephant’s trunk came and carried him down a
ladder.
“What’re you doing,
D?” Enrique bumped Derek’s shoulder.
“Calm down, hermanito. Deep
breaths. We can’t have you losing it
tonight.”
“I’m
fine. . . ,” he
unclenched his fists as the fire vanished, and the yellow elephant left. “.
. . sh-shit together.”
“We don’t have that kind of time,” Rock said,
a mean smile accompanying his words. He
was busy jimmying the lock on the pharmacy’s back door. The door was dirty and
greasy, Derek thought. A click echoed in the empty alleyway. “We’re in.”
The
place was a dark
labyrinth lined with shelves full of drugs.
Wedged in between Rock and Enrique, Derek was pushed along, reading the
confused alphabet of drug names printed on the boxes. After a few twists and
turns, Rock stopped. “Found it.”
He
shined his phone
light on red and white boxes marked with the word “pseudoephedrine.” The boxes
looked so perfect, Derek thought: Apple red and cloud white. Rock reached for
one of the boxes and smudged one of the corners with grease from the alley door.
Derek started to sway back and forth, raised a fist to jostle the emotions in
his head. Enrique tried to calm him
down. Rubbing his back, he spoke in a
steady tone. “Take a deep breath. We’re almost done. Throw a few handfuls in a
bag and we’re out. Then you can watch TV
and color while Rock and I cook that special medicine.”
“The
one you’re
going to give to the sick people?”
Derek
smiled. “Like mom?”
“Si,” Enrique’s voice caught in his
throat. “That’s the one.”
Rock
shoved Enrique
aside. “Why’d we even bring him along?” His whisper was urgent, tinged with
menace. “He’s fucking autisti—.”
Enrique’s right hand
shot out faster than Rock could react in the dim light of the stockroom. It was
tight and semi-professional, and caught Rock just above his ear.
“Never call him that. He’s here because I
ain’t leaving him alone . . . I’m all he’s got. And my contacts
are what you need.
So . . . you want my help . . . you tolerate Derek.”
Rock’s
eyes
challenged Enrique. Enrique’s hand clamped down on Rock’s shoulder, grinding
his thumb into his front deltoid to prove his point. Rock’s eyes watered.
A low grumble served as
his response.
Bags
filled with
boxes, they filed out of the stockroom.
Outside, bright
lights and angry shouts greeted them. The cold muzzle of a gun was pressed just
below Derek’s ear. Rough hands tore him away from his brother. Sights and
sounds overwhelmed.
Enrique
was being
held down by several blue uniforms. Derek’s name was on his lips as he fell to
the ground. His body jiggled from the swift kicks of the officers. Rock made a
move toward his waistband. Loud shouts and loud bangs hit Derek’s ears. Red and
white boxes flew up in the air as Rock slumped to the ground. Derek wrestled
against the blue hands. Muffled Taser threats filled his ears. He watched the
boxes spin in the red-blue lights of the police cars. He screamed.
The
jolt of
electricity contorted his limbs; made his chest hurt. Derek screamed again. Apples
and clouds were falling from the sky, and no one was trying to catch them.
###
Zachary
Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his
wife and cats. He has previously had stories published in Spelk
Fiction, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine,
and Shotgun Honey, among others. His art currently resides
at https://www.deviantart.com/whytedevil.
