The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins

The car behind bumps me forward in my seat as it slams into the back of mine. I laugh and curse all at the same time, turning to glare at who it is, thinking it’s probably Daryl, my best friend from high school and now best friend in college.

I turn in my seat. “Hey, asshole, get a life, will you? We’re on the same . . .” I let my words trail off as I stare into the eyes of the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

Brown, shoulder-length hair, deep brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across a little button nose. I take all this in within seconds, my brain taking a mental picture of her perfect face. The multi-colored lights flashing around us do nothing to stop my gaze. She giggles at my stare—honest to God giggles at me—and I can’t hold back my nervous smile.

“Sorry, I thought you were my asshole friend,” I yell over the noise.

She looks at me, her forehead crinkling in amusement as she tries to work out what I’m saying over the thumping techno music. I realize that both of us have stopped moving, our bumper cars at a standstill right in the center of the ring while we stare at each other like idiots. I catch movement from the corner of my eye before a red car slams into the right side of mine. The air leaves my lungs as another car hits the left side of mine, and my body slams sideways with an
umph
!

The girl giggles again, a hand covering her mouth in a gesture that’s both sweet and sexy all at the same time. I turn and grin, ignoring the sound of Daryl’s hyena-style laugh. The music still blasts far too loudly, the annoying lights continuing to flash around us. And to think, I previously thought they were cool and retro; now I just find them annoying, and I want to get off this damn ride and away from all these distractions so I can talk to her.

I turn to Daryl as he backs up his car and rams me again, still hyena laughing. As he goes in for a third ram, the car stops and merely taps the side of mine as the ride finally comes to an end. He dives out and straight toward me with a huge grin, his bright orange hair flashing as it catches the multi-colored lights.

“Come on, dickface.” He ruffles my hair and grabs the back of my T-shirt, still grinning as he practically lifts me out of my seat. At six-foot five and built like a college linebacker—because, well, he
is
a college linebacker—he outweighs me easily, but I’m no small guy either.

“Get off.” I shrug out of his grip and turn to look at the girl.

But she’s gone, and the weirdest thing happens: my heart skips a beat.

Daryl drags me from the bumper cars while he continues to chatter away. He heads toward the hotdog stand without even noticing my total distraction from what he’s saying. We’d come to the fair with a couple of Daryl’s football buddies—nice enough guys, if not a bit rowdy for my liking.

“Two chili dogs.” He barks out the order to the bearded guy serving before turning to me. “’Sup with you, man? You got that goofy look on your face again.”

My eyes scan the busy crowd of boisterous kids and irritated parents, looking for the girl from the bumper cars. “Nothing,” I reply, still staring into the throng of people. “And what goofy look? I don’t have a goofy look.”

Daryl pushes me. “Sure you don’t.” He hands me my chili dog and we head off toward the funhouse. “Not like when we were in high school and you’d go all gooey-eyed whenever Stacey Le’Hewitt walked into class. Oh shit, is that it?” He punches me in the arm.

“Is what it?” I dive away as he tries to tackle me.

“You’ve seen a girl?” He chuckles and takes a massive bite out of his food, not caring about what an asshole he’s being.

“No,” I snap, embarrassed at the mention of Stacey Le’Hewitt. That was a portion of my life I’d rather forget—though in a town this size, it’s hard to do.

Stacey Le’Hewitt was just a girl, and I was just a boy. We were kids, but I thought it was true love. I know now that it wasn’t—it was just two kids who liked each other an awful lot . . . only one moved on before the other. I’ve always believed in true love—the sort that you read about in books. Maybe that’s because I was brought up by my mom—she used to read me Shakespeare every night—or maybe it’s just in my DNA. Either way, it feels as if I’ve spent my entire nineteen years searching for The One. I look around me for the brown-eyed girl. Could she be it? It sure felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

The sun is beginning to set, casting a warm orange summer glow over the fairground and forming shadows around us. The air is thick with heat and alive with little bugs. The constant chirp of things can be heard from the small clumps of bushes and trees around the tents. I hate bugs. I swat at a little fly that gets too close to my face, feeling the humidity on my clammy skin.

We finish our chilidogs, scrunching up the wrappers as we arrive at the funhouse, and both of us drop them to the ground, throw a dollar each to the bored-looking vendor of the ride, and head inside. It’s dark and stuffy, the bad fluorescent paint job on the crappy plywood walls showing the age of this thing. We balance over wobbly floors and make dumb faces in the crazy mirrors before heading back out the other side of the ride.

“That was a bust. Wanna to go back to the bumper cars?” Daryl asks.

It’s a little darker than when we went in, but not by much. However, strings of cheap lights have been turned on around the fairground. I scan the crowd for
her
again, but continue to come up short.

“Sure, if you want.” I shrug noncommittally and look down as I stuff my hands into my jeans pockets.

We head back over to the bumper cars, kicking a couple of stray cans that people have dropped on the way and chatting about the summer so far. Daryl has been struggling with the extra workload of college, and his mom is making him get a tutor when we go back after the break so he doesn’t fall too far behind. I haven’t found it that bad, though I’ve had more of a social life than I normally like. I’m not a great one for meeting new people, but between Daryl’s boisterous nature and what he calls my “boyish good looks,” it’s been difficult to try and blend into the background like I prefer to do.

I stare at my white sneakers as we walk, burping out my chili dog and regretting eating it as the taste is regurgitated back into my mouth unpleasantly. Daryl continues to chatter away again, once more unaware of me only paying half as much attention as I should be. It’s always been like this with us—probably why we’ve been friends for so long. He is the fast-talking joker and I’m the quiet one. We complement each other perfectly without cramping each other’s style.

“Did you see that? There’s a fight.” Daryl tugs on my T-shirt and I look up.

Sure enough, he’s right: a fight’s broken out between a couple of dudes. By the looks of the girls bitching at each other to the side of them, I’d say they were probably the cause. Parents are dragging their little kids away from the fight—not only because of the violence, but because of the cuss words flying around. The whole thing makes me groan and roll my eyes.

A crowd closes around the two guys fighting and I follow Daryl over as he laughs and whoops manically. Me, I’m a lover not a fighter, and the sound of fists hitting flesh makes my stomach churn. It’s not that I can’t fight, it’s that I choose not to—not unless I have to. And when I do it’s usually to back up Daryl, since he seems to attract trouble wherever he goes. I follow him into the throng of people, pushing aside a couple that with a polite “excuse me.” I get some shifty stares but most people are too preoccupied with watching these guys beating on each other to really care. The shrill voices of the girls arguing close by echo throughout the crowd, and I’m pretty certain that it’s only moments now before those two start pulling at each other’s hair like only girls can do.

I finally push to the front and see that a dark-haired guy has a smaller blond-haired guy pinned to the ground as he lays into him, his fists repeatedly flying into the guy’s face as the blond guy snarls up at him.

Daryl is still laughing and egging them on much like everyone else, but it does nothing for me in any way. The sight and smell of the blood is just gross, and I can’t quite grasp what enjoyment people can get from watching this. I turn to head back out of the crowd and bump straight into Brown Eyes.

“You again.” She smiles as she says it, letting me know that she’s being playful. “What’s happening there?” She points behind me.

I shrug and smile back to her. “Couple of jocks beating on each other, nothing new.” I try to act casual—nonchalant, almost.

“Ugh, jocks.” She chuckles.

Behind us the girls are screaming at each other, and I’m guessing that means that they’ve started their little bitch fight.

“Do you wanna, umm, go somewhere…less noisy?” I ask shyly.

“Less violent?” she adds on and takes my hand.

She turns and pulls us through the crowd. Her hand in mine is warm, her skin soft, whereas mine feels clammy…and growing more so with each second that she holds my hand in hers, but I don’t want to let it go.

We escape from the crowd and she continues to hold my hand as she pulls me toward the clay pigeon shooting. She glances back over her shoulder and smiles, and I see a small blush creep up her neck and cheeks. We come to a stop at the stall laden with colorful teddy bears hanging from hooks.

“Three tries for five dollars,” the bored vendor says, holding out the long-barreled gun to me. He’s a scruffy middle-aged guy who looks like he’s been drinking away his life.

I turn to Brown Eyes. “You want a teddy bear?”

She nods happily and my heart skips again.

“Yes, please. If you think you can. I mean, these things are rigged, right?” She pays no mind to the scowling vendor.

I look at her: she’s much shorter than I—probably only five feet, three inches, even in her little heels; her hair looks soft to the touch, and I know her skin is. Everything about her seems delicate and precious.

“If you want a teddy bear, I’ll get you a teddy bear,” I say confidently and hand the vendor my five dollars, shooting him a cocky grin.

I take aim with the gun, staring down the barrel of it and noticing that it’s off by a millimeter or so. That’ll put a slight curve on the pellet and make it almost impossible to win. Almost.

I readjust my aim, taking into account the curve, and pull the trigger, hitting the clear glass bottles at the back of the stall dead center and knocking the top three over. Two more shots and the tower of nine bottles have fallen. I feel victorious as Brown Eyes cheers and hugs me. Her arms feel
right
around me. You know the way ketchup goes with a burger and the salt goes on fries. We feel like two things that just
belong
together. She must feel it too, because she pulls back a little, her cheeks flushed as she looks up at me and smiles.

“Which one did you want?” I say and gesture to all the dangling teddies.

She picks out a pink one with a red bow around its neck and the vendor grudgingly hands it over. Brown Eyes slips her hand in mine and we walk away.

“How did you do that?” she asks, a small skip in her step. “Do you often shoot guns?” She chuckles.

I laugh back. “Me and my uncle go hunting all the time,” I say and smile at her sideways.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re really good.”

“I’m better with a bow. But if I’m being really honest, I don’t like shooting things. I’d much rather pet a deer than kill it.” I cringe, thinking I sound like a total asshat, but she doesn’t say anything and when I chance a glance at her, she’s still smiling and staring at her feet.

The music from the fairground is quieter as we move away from the main part and toward the Ferris wheel. The strings of lights shine around us, making her hair shine and her eyes sparkle. The poet in me is already imagining what it would feel like to kiss her soft pink mouth and run my fingers through her silky tresses.

“Two, please,” I say to the vendor and look at Brown Eyes, making sure she’s okay with me taking the lead.

She nods, and we climb into the little seat and I pull the bar down over us, and slowly the ride begins to lift. The cart swivels on its hinges as we get higher, the air cooler up here yet still humid with the summer heat. We have a great view over the entire fairground up here, and for a moment I’m lost within the moment of the feel of her body next to mine and the lights dancing down below.

“It’s so pretty,” she says.

I turn in my seat to look at her. “I was thinking the same thing,” I say bashfully.

She starts to say something and then stops and looks away. When she looks back at me, her cheeks are flushed again. “This is weird, right? I mean, it’s perfect and weird, and…”

“Can I kiss you?” I say without thinking. Jesus, where did that come from? She doesn’t even know me, and I’m asking to kiss her. I brace myself for a slap across the face, but she only nods lightly, the blush creeping further up her cheeks.

I lean in, my hands holding onto the sides of her face, her hair soft on my fingers. I press my mouth against hers and her lips part for me, and then our tongues are dancing against one another and she steals my breath away.

I pull out of our kiss and stare into her eyes, and I know that Brown Eyes feels it too: this is love at first sight.