Chapter Text
A storm is coming, brewing black and blue in the distance. It drowns the day's last rays of light, and it makes the endless tall grass fields look dark and eerie. A small miracle in the young dry summer, a blessing from an unkind god.
It will wash away much more than dust.
Tyler stands in the field, staring straight ahead, at the rain that crawls slow and steady through the horizon. He feels unusually peaceful like this; his thoughts are subdued, his self is reduced to nothing but a fading memory, he's completely disconnected. He likes it.
A car passes on the road behind him, and it leaves with a honk of its horn, ripping Tyler from his trance, but he doesn't bother looking back to see who it might have been. He looks at his hands instead, at his split knuckles oozing blood, at his trembling fingertips, and sighs. He cleaned them, meticulously so, they are corroded by the chemicals now, rough and dry, and yet they still feel dirty.
Tyler runs a hand down his face — There is nothing on his face.
The sea of grass sways in hypnotic patterns, its messages undecipherable, and a tiny raindrop falls on Tyler's cheek. He looks back at his car parked on the side of the road and decides it's time to go home, but there is no home to return to, not here or anywhere else, there is nothing for him here.
There never was.
████████ ████████, 54, gym teacher and sports coach from █████ ████ ███████, local K-12 school, found dead on school grounds.
If you have any information, please call █ ██ ████ - ████
Limiter
The ceiling is still the same, the lockers too, and the floor is still clean despite the yellowing of the linoleum, but the air is decidedly less dry today, thanks to last night's storm. It feels good to breathe, it feels easy like never before, though the summer stillness still creeps around the empty hallways, pooling in the hidden, unreachable corners.
The emptiness is almost dreamlike, and the fabric of reality seems to flow free, getting caught in invisible crevices, accentuating the hollowness the kids left behind, the hollowness that just sits there, existing, in a constant state of waiting, nothing more.
But its inert monumentality is nothing but a front — the School is alive, and Tyler is a part of the organism. He floats from one obscure corner to the next, exploring the endless, breathing hallways, cleaning the bones; his job menial and meaningful, invisible, yet essential. He likes to think of it as a labor of love and not as a sentence of fate or as a punishment. A comforting lie.
The School is important to him regardless; he likes it here. The guts, the nerves, the bright blood red decorating the walls. He belongs here, trapped or not. It's the solidity of the School he likes, its silence; it never judges, it never changes.
Tyler is also silent; he's always silent. He really needs to polish the floors again.
The door to the teacher's room suddenly swings open, its hinges creaking unusually loudly, and the Principal steps out, followed closely by the two out-of-town Detectives. Tyler isn't startled by their arrival; he's been waiting on them for a while now, though he hardly noticed the passage of time. How long has he been waiting? Five minutes? One hour?
The Principal gestures to the Detectives, and they step back, returning to the door, waiting. "Tyler," she calls, her voice calm and kind; she's always been kind to him. "They want to talk to you now,"
Tyler nods, getting up from the bench he's been sitting on. One of the Principal's hands finds his shoulder, her smile finds his eyes, and Tyler smiles back, tight and awkward, before nodding again and dusting himself off — a habit he picked up after getting this job, a self-soothing thing.
A test of will. He walks off to face the Detectives, and they let him in, closing the door as soon as he sets foot inside, leaving the Principal behind.
Tyler runs a hand down his face — There’s nothing on his face.
It's rather disrespectful doing this here, inside the heart of the School. The drawings, the photos, old and new, the memos, and the notices adorning the walls and corkboards shouldn't bear witness to this mess. Tyler understands it's partially his fault, of course, but the ultimate decision wasn't his; he never liked the police anyway.
Tyler sits at the edge of the big oval table in the middle of the room, letting his body relax in the uncomfortable, under-stuffed chair. One of the Detectives — a lanky, pale, crooked-nosed, and sharp-eyed looking guy — sits opposite him, a large wooden gap between them. There are now two completely different worlds on each side of the table, predator and prey, but Tyler never thought of himself as something to be feared until very recently. He's more than ready for this.
The Detective taps his pen impatiently, and his mouth starts moving; he doesn't care who this table belongs to, he's indifferent to the importance of this room. He tells Tyler about his rights, about the investigation, something about recording too, and Tyler just nods along to his every word, not really paying attention. Apparently satisfied with the half-assed response, the Detective opens his little notebook and presses something on his phone. "Please state your full name, age, and profession for the record," he demands.
Tyler leans in. "Uh, Tyler Robert Joseph. Twenty-four years old. Janitor."
"So, Mr. Joseph," the Detective adjusts his posture. "Can you tell me where you were on June seventh, between the hours of five and seven PM?"
Tyler pretends to think. "Hm, hanging around in the fields, I think,"
The Detective raises an eyebrow. "You think?"
"I wasn't really looking at the time, to be honest," Tyler explains. "But I was home around six thirty or seven, right before the storm started,"
"The fields, hm?" The Detective points out, expecting Tyler to elaborate, but he just receives a small, tight nod in response. "… Doing what, exactly?" He asks, annoyed.
"Hanging out?" Tyler shrugs, mostly to himself. "I don't know, it's just something I like doing… Go out there and take in the view for a while," he explains. "Just about anyone can confirm that,"
"Strange habit, isn't it?" The judgment in the Detective's voice is crystal clear. "Were you alone?"
"Yeah," Tyler says, and the Detective standing by the door — a short, muscular, blond, and round-faced looking woman — shifts uncomfortably.
They think they got him.
The Detective in front of him sighs. "Can you tell me more about your injuries?" he asks, nodding in the direction of Tyler's hands resting on the table.
Tyler looks down at his gauze-wrapped hands, the blood slowly seeping through the bandages. He thinks the dark red and the translucent off-white almost look good together. "Got in a fight a few days earlier," he says.
"With whom?"
In that moment, Tyler allows himself to be as judgmental as the Detective. "You know who. It was reported," he says. "I'm sure you got the files from the local station,"
The Detective smiles and cleans his teeth with his tongue before nodding stiffly; his expression speaks of effort, of strained self-control. "We did," he says, tapping his ring finger on the table. "But we'd like to hear it from you,"
Tyler sinks a little bit further into his chair and sighs. "I saw some out-of-town creep trying to grope some students in the city," he recounts briefly. "No one did a thing, so I did. I just responded when he attacked me,"
"The officers said you were quite brutal," the Detective comments, smile still playing on his lips, his suspicions obvious.
"Would you rather I had been kind?" Tyler deadpans, and the Detective's slight smile drops completely. "The police around here get little action; anything is brutal to them,"
"I would've been safer for you and the girls if you had called the police, Mr. Joseph," The Detective by the door chimes in, her frame stable, arms crossed.
"How so?" Tyler looks at her, lightly shaking his head. "For them to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go?"
The Detective blinks, and her lips become a thin line. Good — She knows Tyler is right, even though she would never admit it. The silent acknowledgement creates a different dynamic between them; it creates a semblance of respect for what he has done. As for the Detective in front of Tyler though, his face is set in stone. He. Does. Not. Care.
"It's been a few days already," he comments. "How come you're still bleeding?"
"I was working up until yesterday," Tyler explains. "And it's hard to heal when you can't keep your hands still…" but then he adds, a little embarrassed. "I also… keep picking at the scabs,"
The Detective nods slowly; he's obviously not convinced, but he doesn't press any further. "What was your relationship with Mr. ████████ like?"
Tyler freezes for a moment. "Uh? Well, we don't talk much," he says, remembering to talk about the Coach as if he were still alive. "We always greet each other, and sometimes he asks me to clean something in the gym; that's about it. He was also my coach when I was a student here," Tyler gestures broadly with his hand. "If that means anything,"
"Do you know what his relationship with the kids was like? Their parents, maybe?"
Tyler shakes his head. "I'm not sure. Good… I think? "
The Detective blinks slowly and taps his pen again. The way he's always tapping something is starting to bother Tyler a little. "Would you say he was well-liked?"
"I would say he was normal-liked,"
"No enemies?"
Tyler can't help the small snort that escapes him. "I don't think anyone in this town has enemies," But he backtracks. "Uh, at least not to the point of… you know,"
"Murder," the Detective by the door supplies.
"That," Tyler licks and bites his lips. "Especially in the way it happened,"
The male Detective in front of him hums and nods solemnly. "Hm, got it," he says between pursed lips. "I'm going to ask you something; it's just protocol, don't worry, but-"
There it is — the million-dollar question.
Tyler is aware he's the prime suspect, of course he is, but that doesn't matter; he doesn't care. He didn't do this on a whim; he came prepared. He spent months, weeks upon weeks, endless days and nights grinding down every single detail and every possible outcome. He gnawed at the consequences, he sat with the dread and the madness of his plan, and he ended up right here, being asked this very question a million times before. He knows what to say and what to hide, how to sit, how to talk, and above all, Tyler knows how to lie.
"-did you kill Mr. ████████?" The Detective asks.
Tyler's face slightly contorts into a disgusted scowl. Nothing too flashy or exaggerated, just a normal, mildly uncomfortable, and annoyed expression, the one he practiced on the mirror many times before. "Of course not," he lies.
he lies and lies and lies
LIES
lies
lies
lies
LIES
And they let him go.
Tyler opens the door to his dusty old sedan and slips inside. He counts five things he can see (tape, tire marks, painted lines, sky, concrete), four things he can touch (steering wheel, gear shift, pen, rearview mirror), three things he can hear (wind, heavy breathing, bones breaking), two things he can smell (chlorine, crushed grass), and one thing he can taste (blood).
He's still here; he still has hands, legs, a soul, and a beating heart. The world is still here too; his car is still gray and ugly, and the sky is still blue and clear. Therefore, Tyler is alive, at least for now.
The School's parking lot is mostly barren now, with the exception of Tyler's own car, the Principal's green truck, and the Detective's strangely elegant ride. The rest of the police staff have already left, the body has already been dealt with, evidence has been collected and stored, and now all that remains is silence and stretched yellow tape.
Nothing lasts long here, everything is temporary, and Tyler is coming back on Monday to polish the floors as scheduled. The only pressing matter right now is going back to his parents' house, the place that is not home. He starts the car and leaves the parking lot, but the house will have to wait a little longer; he's going to the Store first.
Radio on, he crosses the city, from the isolated corner the School sits on, surrounded by the endless green fields and abandoned, decrepit houses, through the unkempt streets of the central part of town, right to the edge of civilization, where the fields begin again. There are many houses sprinkled throughout what used to be thriving farmland, Tyler's parents' included, and now, taken by the grasses and economic irrelevance, they remain as mere monuments to a past long gone, uncanny, and locked in an eternal losing battle against the elements.
This is the civilization Tyler has always known. There are no jobs here, no tourism to be made, just a set of old houses being sold for pennies and a view of a liminal, endless heaven. If the end of the world ever comes, Tyler hopes this infertile, pain-scorched land, where the sun burns hope and sanity vanishes behind closed doors, is the first one to go. But he can only hope.
The road greets him with its potholes and long, straight lines, connecting nowhere to nowhere, and thankfully, the radio is distracting enough so Tyler doesn't lose his mind in the iterated streets. He sings along to his own playlist, and he thinks himself an okay singer for that at least; it centers his mind, and it almost gives his thoughts form, but he only sings until the Store comes into view. Call it situational awareness or call it shame; Tyler is not subjecting anyone to his odd music taste.
But there's only one person working at the Store at all times — Josh.
They know each other, they went to school together, but they don't talk much outside the regular customer service exchange. But then again, they also didn't talk much back then. There's this uncomfortable sensation that overcomes Tyler whenever he's in the presence of his old classmates; a bone-deep uneasiness that spreads like ever-growing roots and takes residence in his lungs, a slow choking anguish. Josh, of course, is no exception, though the feeling is weaker when it comes to him. All in all, Tyler is grateful most of his peers have already left the city; he's lucky to still have places to breathe.
Tyler parks as far from the Store's entrance as he can, and he stays inside his car for a few more minutes, staring at the parking lot. To the left — that's how he feels, like his soul is misaligned.
Five things he can see, four, three, two, one… How many times will he need to do this today?
Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose, then presses on his eyes with both his thumb and middle finger. He taps impatiently on the steering wheel with the other hand — one, two, three times — and sighs, defeated. This is enough; it has to be. He exits the car, and, in a strange moment of lucidity, he notices the sheer size of the parking lot, how empty it is and wonders why they even built it this big in the first place. No matter, Tyler walks the length of the hot cement and enters the building through the narrow door, a bell ringing right above his head.
The sound makes Josh's head snap in his direction, and he quickly removes his legs from the checkout counter. He offers Tyler a tight, sheepish smile. "Afternoon," he says, and Tyler just nods as he walks him by, getting further inside the Store.
He's not looking for anything specific, so he wanders through the aisles, hoping something will catch his attention. Honestly, he's just killing time now; he doesn't want to go back.
The cool, shady hallways of the Store had always been alluring to him, a sort of transitional space Tyler can go to whenever he's not fully prepared for what's next. It's just another thing on the endless list of Tyler's strange habits, but lots of people around these parts are weird, and Josh doesn't seem to mind.
Tyler floats to the cleaning section, where he normally buys his actually strong cleaning agents, since the School only has so much money to spend on supplies. He doesn't mind buying some stuff on the side if it makes his job easier; it's never a waste, and, in the end, it helped him cleanup after his own mess. The floors, the door handles, the tools, and his hands too — properly cleaning blood is a very tricky thing.
An electric zap runs throughout Tyler's brain.
From the corner of his eye, he identifies a security camera up high in the corner of the room. He licks his lips nervously and looks at it, just as it looks at him, blinking in malicious red. The police are going to review the footage eventually, and they'll see him buying the chemicals, the zip ties, everything. This is bad.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
How stupid of him to think his plan was infallible. Nothing ever is.
Tyler leaves the aisle and grabs an energy drink. He wanders some more and grabs some popcorn, then a chocolate bar, and on his way to the checkout, something else catches his attention — a six-pack of fruit popsicles. Hell, why not? He grabs a box and brings the items to Josh.
"Did you find everything?" Josh asks, and the way he says it triggers a weird sense of paranoia within Tyler.
"Yeah," he answers, but it barely comes out.
Tyler tries to hold on to his sanity, and in an effort to not let his mind wander too far, he focuses all of his attention on Josh, on watching him work. Tyler rescues some hazy memories of the past, and he thinks about how Josh used to be super alternative when they were younger. He bothered most adults just by existing in his own way, but he never seemed to care about the judgment. Tyler always felt a bit jealous of his courage. But he mellowed out over the years; he's more of a sporty type now, muscular, but not in an exaggerated way, though the defiant hairstyle remains; he just switched the emo hair for a mohawk. As far as Tyler knows, he still gets the occasional side-eye from the older folks in town, but he's more respected now, since he's basically the only person running this Store.
Tyler pays in cash, and he tries not to stare at Josh's hands as they exchange the money. He also tries not to stare at Josh's arms as he bags his purchases for him. He fails both times. It almost feels like a little shared ritual at this point — both the bagging of groceries and the staring. Josh doesn't seem to mind.
Josh clears his throat when he's finished. "Here you go," he says, handing Tyler the bags.
Tyler takes them. "Thanks," he says, before making a beeline towards the exit. He can feel Josh's eyes burning on the back of his neck.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
The bell rings, and the sultry, heavy afternoon air assaults Tyler. He stops not five paces outside the Store, still within the protective shade of the awning, and looks down at the bag containing his poor popsicles. Tyler understands, with a serene kind of certainty, that they are not going to survive the journey.
Is he really mourning the popsicles?
Tyler watches as the heat emanates in waves from the sea of scorched concrete in front of him, a bleak view. But almost out of sight, past the parking lot, beyond the cracked asphalt, lies an even bigger sea, this one made of endless emerald green. A sliver of respite.
The fields that consume their little piece of nowhere are bewitching, and they awaken a deep-rooted yearning in Tyler. Whenever he steps foot inside any of the many pieces of abandoned land, a desire to sink and melt into the rolling hills consumes him, a need to fade into the mosaic of green and wind that he tries his best to resist. But maybe it's time to stop resisting; maybe he'll have to.
"Whatever," he whispers to himself, taking the popsicle box out of the bag and digging into the cardboard with his fingers. He takes a popsicle out and rips the packaging. "I'll just kill myself and-"
"Why?"
Tyler almost jumps out of his skin. "Fuck!" He screeches, turning around to see Josh standing right behind him, his head slightly tilted to the side. "Where- Why are you here?"
"Uh…" Josh hesitates. "Lunch break,"
Tyler gawks at him and blinks, maybe a little more than necessary. "It's three PM," he points out.
Josh shrugs. "The cameras inside don't work," he says. It isn't just some throwaway line; the words aren't said lightly. This is Josh deliberately giving Tyler this crucial piece of information, and Tyler can't help but feel fear clogging up his throat. Josh knows. "And I don't have anyone to report to," he continues. "So sometimes I like to come out here and take in the view when there are no customers,"
Tyler takes a moment from his blood-curdling paranoia to look back at the parking lot. He raises an eyebrow. "The view?"
Josh steps closer, eyeing the box of popsicles in Tyler's hand. "Well, I take what I can get," he says, then he reaches in and takes a popsicle for himself. "What do you have?"
Tyler has nothing.
Josh opens his stolen treat. "Don't kill yourself yet." He says before biting into it and walking back to the Store, and this time it's Tyler's eyes that follow him.
The bell rings, the door closes, and Tyler is left standing uselessly in the heat, popsicle melting slowly in his hand.
The hills will have to wait a little longer.