Wayward Minds Project: Khione

[02] Asphodel - The Flying Lettuce Brothers

Like most teens on the block, Asphodel loved Saturdays, albeit for completely diverse reasons. Teens enjoyed Saturdays, because it offered a temporary break from school, education, and homework, a day for riding bikes and picking flowers, a day spent with girlfriends and boyfriends, shopping at malls, taking peaceful strolls, baking in kitchens. But, to Asphodel, he fell in love with Saturdays, because it was the only day in the week when a fresh, new bruise or wound wasn't added to his plethoric collection, each a reminder of pain and suffering his parents inflicted upon him whenever Asphodel did something subtly different than usual. It was a day of ephemeral liberation, to utter a word whenever he liked without the belt swinging down to meet his skin, to sleep for the rest of the afternoon without finding himself kneeling on a plate of salt.

To a normal person, the idea of receiving fleeting freedom once underneath a week probably isn't much to be delighted about, but when it's on Asphodel's end of the stick, it's a miracle, more than a blessing. Asphodel called this Little Graces. Little Graces meant small gifts that others may have dubbed as 'worthless','meaningless', or people generally take for granted, like unoriginal shoes or loving parents, but would mean the world to Asphodel if it were given to him willingly. Little Graces do not come by his life very often, but when it does, he never forgets to kneel beside his bed, close his eyes, press his hands together, and send God a prayer containing his most heartfelt gratitude.

The memory holding Asphodel's first ever Little Graces was something he could not and will not forget, the scenario vivid. When he had been merely six years old, quiet, an exact copy of his brothers, Asphodel used to have small moments of freedom, to step on the soft grass of their tiny lawn, to sit down on the dusty, lukewarm curb, soundlessly gazing at other kids play a few feet away, their banter and snickers transported by the flowing, afternoon air. There had been a time when one of the kids stepped close to him, her smile a friendly greeting, not knowing that being around Asphodel would suffice for him to be the belt's next victim. Pigtails bouncing, she crouched right in front of him and invited Asphodel to join them play, but before he could utter a word, the loud boom of the voice of Asphodel's father sliced through the air, his footsteps thunderous against the ground.

Next afternoon, no child dared to invite Asphodel once more as he sat on the curb, his forehead showcasing a nasty bruise in a dark shade of purple. Being invited to play was Asphodel's first Little Graces, and there were more to come.

More to come, indeed.

The clinking of chinaware was a pain to Asphodel's ears, ringing in the placid air of their house's brightly lit dining room. Through the only window, thick curtains drawn back by one of his brothers, a clear view of the garden was offered for Asphodel, the sunshine gladly streaming in through to illuminate the entire room, bathing everyone in a glow of gold. At the center of the long, polished table, accompanied by a carton of milk and a plate of sausages and bacon, stood a cereal box, open and waiting for the next person to reach out and refill their porcelain bowl. The walls were bare and excruciatingly drab, identical to all the others in the house. There were no chandeliers, no plants lounging in the corner, there was only a table and nine, assigned chairs for each member of the family.

Currently, two members were missing.

"Oliver, stop clashing your fork and spoon with your plate." Asphodel's older brother, John, said, bringing everyone's eyes to Asphodel. "Mother and Father might not be here until eight in the evening, but we don't want to develop habits while they're away. You have enough bruises for the week, Oliver."

"John, is it alright to go out the house? We're supposed to be making a group project at one of my friends' house today." Peter said, settling his spoon down in his bowl, submerging the item in milk halfway. Asphodel lowered his gaze down, realizing he was the only one who had chosen sausages and bacon over cereal and milk, before he continued finishing his food, careful not to clash his spoon and fork against the chinaware.

"Just be home before five. We don't know if Mother and Father will be home early, like last time."

"Awesome." Peter grinned, wolfed the remaining contents of his porcelain bowl, grabbed it, and made his way towards the entrance of the kitchen. A second later, they heard the running of water, splashing against the sink and Peter's used bowl. Asphodel's gaze lingered on John's face, wondering if his older brother noticed that Peter's hair wasn't combed neatly today, his straight, jet black hair disheveled in a way that didn't suggest Peter was a church boy.

"What will you be doing today, boys?" John inquired his other younger brothers.

"James and I will be tending the garden today. Mother dislikes how the roses aren't symmetrical. Also, the tulips aren't looking particularly bright." Isaac told him in a tone that was neither excited nor apathetic, his plain, blue shirt identical as James'.

"Will you please purchase fertilizer at the store, John?" James stare transferred from the bowl before him to John, charcoal-colored hair combed back to prevent it from obscuring his eyes, fingers curled around the handle of the spoon. Sitting next to Isaac, James was a few inches taller, despite being younger.

John nodded. "Of course."

"Actually," Asphodel spoke up, voice soft and gentle, almost inaudible to the ones across the table if it weren't for Benedict seated beside him, who hushed their brothers, "May I go out for the day as well? I have business to attend to that I forgot to mention."

A hesitating countenance crossed John's features, brows furrowed close to one another as he exchanged uncertain glances with Matthew, the third oldest of the brothers. Sighing, John settled down his spoon, "Oliver, where will you be going?"

"Somewhere." Annoyance blossomed within Asphodel's chest, biting and screaming for John's approval, but a lesson Asphodel learned behind the walls of this household was to preclude possible emotions from surfacing. His face was empty.

"You have to be more specific than that." Benedict shook his head, gripping his bowl as he stood, proceeding to enter the kitchen at the same moment Peter walked out, bright and cheery, a speck of water on his cheek.

"I will be going to a store." Asphodel informed them.

"You can come with me, then." John told him, about to stand up. "I will be purchasing fertilizer for the garden anyways. We can go together."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

John pinned Asphodel an expression of confusion. "You're not making any sense."

"The store is only five minutes away from our house." Asphodel was cognizant of the reason of John's reluctancy. Asphodel always seemed to know through observing, but he did not fabricate a remark, not wanting John to disapprove his request. Amongst his six brothers, John was closest to Asphodel, often inquiring how his little brother was holding up, tending Asphodel's wounds and bruises, secretly bringing him candies from John's college, sometimes chocolate if John's allowance could manage. During Asphodel's first arrest, it had been John who bailed him out, all of his savings spent on Asphodel's fee to be released. It was a secret between them, a secret that only two brothers shared, and Asphodel had been lucky his parents were away at that time.

"He works there." Peter swooped into the conversation, timing perfect that almost gave Asphodel the urge to thank him, and, grabbing his jacket draped on his chair, he shot Asphodel a sly wink behind John. "Oliver's been working there to earn money, but only during Saturdays. His shift ends at 4 p.m. and starts at 10:00 a.m., am I right, Oliver?"

"Oh," John diverted his eyes back to Asphodel, a ghost of a grin appearing, "How come you didn't tell us, Oliver?"

"I didn't know how to." Asphodel answered briefly.

John glanced at his battered wrist watch. "It's almost ten. Go brush your teeth now, Oliver. I'll take care of your plate."

With a nod, lips pursed, Asphodel got off his chair and walked briskly towards the doorway, coins jiggling in his shallow pocket, Peter following close behind. Once they were out of the dining room, John's voice gliding out as he talked to his other brothers, Peter, for the second time, gave Asphodel a wink, placing a hand atop Asphodel's hair, ruffling it with a playful grin. Saying nothing further, Asphodel headed towards the steps of the stairs, the pictures on the walls a mirage of happiness, a trick to believe, contrived and ambiguous smiles attached to their lips, and Asphodel heard Peter yell his goodbye to his brothers, the sound of the front door slamming shut following shortly.

The bathroom was not far and Asphodel arrived there in no time, snatching his pale blue toothbrush from the porcelain holder behind the tiny cupboard, pushing its door close to find Asphodel staring right at his blank reflection on the mirror attached to the door of the cupboard. Hair tousled, eyes empty and dull, Asphodel looked undoubtedly tired and worn out, at the verge of releasing his soul after years of clutching its fading hand. A Band-Aid ran across the bridge of his nose and a horrid bruise was located at the top left corner of his forehead, Asphodel's pale complexion accentuating its dark shade. Immediately, Asphodel covered it with his hair, wincing after his finger accidentally made contact with the bruise, and when his strands of black finally obscured it fully from random eyes, Asphodel squeezed some toothpaste into his toothbrush and began brushing.

Asphodel wondered the arrival of his next Little Graces. Not often did it cross his mind, afraid that by thinking too much about it, a seed of impatience might plant itself within his chest, but Asphodel was more than grateful to be receiving Little Graces from John, occassionally Peter, who, instead of candies and chocolates, brought him drinks and random, fascinating items he comes across at his college, like a rock with a painted back or a disregarded, fallen ballpoint pen with multiple shades of ink. Asphodel considered a myriad of things as Little Graces; a firefly that flew into his open window at midnight, the blooming wildflowers behind their Mother's garden, new, thick books their Father purchases once in a while at the bookstore.

Little Graces were everywhere for Asphodel, but there were times when he could not see it due to the difficulty of the situation, the state he has been tossed in by his parents, the pain he has to endure without having his eyes express the agony through tears. Asphodel constantly asked himself what it would be like to have a life of freedom, to run into the arms of loving parents after a rough day, to be genuinely happy, for once, beneath the roof of a home, a home of bright light and affection, a home of simplicity, forgiveness, and rapture.

What would it be like to have no bruises? No lurking fear and darkness? To not question whether humanity has died down to cruelty?

Asphodel finished brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth with clear water as he returned the toothbrush to its rightful place, before spitting the water on the sink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Asphodel descended the stairs, feeling the glares of the people in the photos on him, and he halted at the bottom landing when Isaac and James emerged from the dining room's doorway. They were the same, akin to twins, and Asphodel tried not to remember that all of them were identical to a limit. That was the way of their parents; they desire all of their kids to be somehow the same. Same clothes, if possible, same hair, same mannerisms, all the same. Asphodel felt like the shades of the Underworld; no identity, no voice.

Just a wanderer who follows the other shades, direction absent in their minds.

"Be careful, Oliver." James said. "The world demands your identity."

"And we have none." Asphodel replied as James and Isaac nodded, before his two older brothers strode away. Asphodel hurried to the front door, the sound of running water and dishes clinking faint from the kitchen, and Asphodel pondered whether he should say goodbye to John or not. He chose the latter, twisted the doorknob, and went out into the sunshine.

A beautiful day, Asphodel thought, beginning to walk where he was headed.

The first Little Graces Asphodel had encountered. There were only a couple of clouds scattered across the sky, far from one another's reach, the fluffs of white practically porous before the vast, luminous blue sky. The freshness of the breeze felt like an air from heaven, its touch cool against Asphodel's skin. There were no kids playing on their lawns within sight, the neighborhood quiet and almost in a state of sleep as the zephyr blew through the trees and bushes, offering a song of harmony that only nature could ever come to understand. Leaves danced on their branches, rustling to the soft hum of the wind.

Asphodel's hair was now more unkempt than when Peter ruffled it, but his only concern, currently, was the bruise on his forehead, if it was well-hidden by his hair or not. Sighing, Asphodel reached the end of the street, turning right, his hand digging into his other pocket to fish out the sunglasses he had borrowed from Benedict, before he placed them on. Through the dark lenses of the sunglasses, everything was dim, as if an eclipse was taking place overhead, and Asphodel neared a telephone booth, the glasses slightly stained and dusty. He opened the door, immediately conscious of the hot, suffocating air that had been trapped inside the booth. Without a single complaint, Asphodel entered and closed the door.

Letting his eyelids fall to a close, Asphodel focused on the voice of the manager of the store he was headed to, pushing aside countless of thoughts to fill his mind with the deep, guttural sound of the man. Asphodel recalled the man's slight drawl, his difficulty in pronouncing 'th', the way he involuntarily did not use I'm, as if it were not necessary to the structure of his sentence. Asphodel willed himself to concentrate, to be able to imitate his voice despite the fact that he had only heard it four times this month. Because of the stifling air circling the telephone booth, Asphodel was beginning to sweat as he opened his mouth countless of times, testing whether he had grasped the voice of the man, but whenever he tried to form a sentence, Asphodel's voice inserted itself for a brief moment, before the man's voice returned once again.

Finally, after five minutes of dissolving his voice and building the exact copy of the man's voice, Asphodel faintly smiled, produced several coins from his pocket, and pushed them into the telephone's coin slot. He pressed the numbers on the telephone, grateful that he has come to memorize the landline number of the store, before Asphodel raised the receiver and pressed it against his ear. A ringing commenced, cut short when someone picked up the call on the other line, and there came the worker's voice, Trisha. "Hello?"

"Trisha, it's your boss." Asphodel spoke in a flawless copy of the voice of Trisha's manager.

"Oh, Mr Flynn. Is there something wrong?"

"None. Home right now. Sick, actually. Nephew called, said he had no groceries. Parents dead, you see. Lives with his crippled Aunt."

"That's really sad." Trisha sounded sympathetic.

"Nephew's blind and he's coming there. Told him to let his Aunt list all their needs in a paper and give it to you. Give 'em all that's in the list, Trisha. Pay you once sickness is out of my system, 'kay?"

"Wait, wait. Your blind nephew is coming here? Alone?"

"Kid knows the city like the back of his hand, Trisha. Their house ain't far from the convenience store, too."

"Alright, Mr Flynn. I'll wait for your nephew. Get well soon."

"Thanks, Trisha." Asphodel hung up, satisfied. Days of planning for this and nothing can stop Asphodel now.

Pushing his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose, Asphodel exited the telephone booth, the door swinging shut due to the wind, and, spotting a long stick by a bush, Asphodel grabbed it to further complete his look. Without dawdling any longer, Asphodel made a beeline for the convenience store not far ahead.

It was never Asphodel's intention to commit a crime this month, especially after the bruises and the wounds he received from his parents when they had bailed him out on his second arrest, but one morning, Peter waltzed into his room, announced they were to go to the library, before he took Asphodel there. Peter logged into one of the library's computers, grinning, and showed Asphodel an episode from the show Adventure Time. The episode contained Jake back when he had still been a criminal and Peter forwarded it to the part where the Flying Lettuce Brothers tricked an employee from Squeezy Mart using their voice. Peter, being the only one who knew Asphodel's abilities of mimicry, grinned, pointing at the screen of the computer, saying, "Those are you."

Ever since Asphodel saw the episode, he knew what he had to do. During the hours of Saturday, when their parents were not home until eight in the evening, Asphodel visited the store countless of times in a disguise, learning the manager's voice, who will be working behind the cashier once Asphodel sets his plan to motion, and the store's landline number. He fabricated lies, crafted a story, all for this moment.

The windows of the convenience store were pristine and neat, shining due to the sunlight as it streamed in through the glass. Asphodel could spot Trisha behind the counter, eyes alert, expectant of who was to arrive, and he can't help but smirk. Tapping the stick on the ground in front of him, Asphodel slowly walked towards the entrance of the convenience store, automatic doors sliding open with a ding!, and he stumbled in, hearing Trisha's haste footsteps nearing him.

"Are you alright?" She asked, carefully guiding him towards the cashier, one hand on his arm, the other positioned on his back.

"I─I'm alright. Thank you." Asphodel's voice had returned, low and soft, completely contrasting Mr Flynn's.

"You must be Mr Flynn's nephew." Trisha smiled, despite believing that Asphodel was blind. "My name's Trisha."

"I'm De─Denver." Asphodel reached for his back pocket, pulling out a paper that contained a list, before he handed it to Trisha.

"Well, Denver, you're lucky to have Mr Flynn as an uncle, even if he's shitty most of the time." Trisha laughed, sweet and high, and she walked away, stopping by the cashier to snatch a plastic bag. Looking at the list, Trisha began searching for items on the shelves, gently lowering it inside the plastic.

Asphodel remained where he was. "Uncle Flynn really is a blessing. He used to read me bedtime stories when he visited."

"Really?" Trisha said, surprised, setting down countless of candies in the bag without question or skepticism. "Never knew Mr Flynn was softhearted."

"Maybe not to all."

Trisha chuckled. "Definitely. So, Denver, do you have a girlfriend?"

Be suave, Asphodel. Don't go red.

He did go red. "Wha─what?"

"I asked if you have a girlfriend." The grin was unmistakable in her voice.

"Why?"

"Nothing." Trisha returned to the list, brown strands of her hair curtaining her soft face. "I just... I just think you're really handsome, you know?"

Asphodel's answer was brief. "But I'm blind."

"I know." Trisha giggled and Asphodel came to a realization that she looked no older than sixteen. "But just because you're blind, Denver, doesn't mean you don't deserve love. You are not your disability."

If Trisha looked at Peter or any of Asphodel's brothers, he was certain she'd never spare him a glance. "That's really nice of you to say."

"Nobody tells you nice things?"

"I don't have lots of friends."

"I'll be your friend." Trisha said excitedly.

"Why are you being nice to me, Trisha?"

The convenience store fell silent, her footsteps the only thing in the air as Trisha walked back towards Asphodel, plastic bag heavy and full of items, Asphodel's list sitting atop in full view. With a small, sad smile, Trisha handed the plastic bag to Asphodel, eyes melancholic and glistening with tears. "I... I had a little brother. His eyesight could only reach the length of his elbows. People were hard on him, even our parents."

"I'm sorry." Asphodel summoned every ounce of pity in him, the weight of the plastic bag temporarily distracting him.

"No, no. It's not your fault." Trisha waved it off, fingers wiping away the tears. "Would you like me to show you out?"

"No, thank you. You have helped me enough, Trisha. Thank you again. Goodbye." Asphodel smiled slightly, unable to widen it any further, and as Trisha nodded, he turned around, tapped the stick against the floor, and proceeded to awkwardly walk out of the convenience store. The doors slid open, the ding! sharp and echoing, and as it closed, Asphodel's body froze with terror.

In front of him, three police cars were parked and an officer stepped forward, gun directed at Asphodel, "Oliver Clear, you're coming with us."