Logan reached his room and put his phone on the charger. Eight fifty-five. He paced back and forth, massaging his temples. “What could be wrong”, he thought.
Sector climbed up on his bed and settled near his headboard.
Logan walked over to his old canine and rubbed his head. He let out a sigh, “You don’t have any advice for me do you, ol’ boy?”
Sector whined.
He laid on his bed and placed his hands behind his head. All this time of no returned messages or calls and suddenly, “Hey, man, let’s talk.” There’s only one way to find out.
His phone buzzed. Here goes nothing. “Hey, Kevin. What’s up man?”
“Hey, Logan,” he whispered wistfully.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is your mom asleep?”
“For now. She to-”, Kevin’s breath staggered, “she took some stuff to, uh, help with, uh, some of her insomnia”.
“Kevin, is everything okay?”
“Not really, man.”
“Talk to me. What’s up?”
Barely a breath was drawn before-Crash! The sound of shattering glass ripped through the microphone. Kevin jerked up his head and paused. Not one muscle moved. He tried to keep his breathing quiet. A woman howled, “Where’s my stuff at, huh, son? You know what I paid for that!”
Startled, Logan inquired, “What was that?”
“Oh no. Logan, man I gotta go.”
Logan pleaded, “No, wait! Kevin don’t go! What’s hap-?” The line died. It couldn’t be. Breathlessly, he dialed the number again, no answer. Again, and again, and again; all going to voicemail. The last attempt, there was no ring, just an automated mailbox.
Blood fled his guise as Logan tossed the phone on his bed and paced.
A single photograph stood on his desk. Kevin, and himself, two third graders in front of an old oak at the pumpkin patch, all bundled in coats and hats. Logan, so excited to have found his pumpkin, held it to the right by the stalk, with an ear to ear grin. Kevin, quite enamored by his orange friend, was holding it tight to the left, gloveless.
Tears welled up in his eyes. More and more things were beginning to change. There was no stopping it. What could he do? He was just a spineless wimp, dependent on his sister to come to the rescue, when he should be the one saving.
Logan took up his journal and a pen.
Dear Journal,
Here I am, again. Same old, same old. Seeing something that I want to fix and make whole. Burning for an opportunity, but never taking it. Or taking it and screwing it up.
I lost, again. I lost my closest friend. Tonight, Kevin and I were supposed to talk to one another for the first time in months and it was ruined. It was my fault. This one chance was given to me to try to repair what was broken in my friend, and I failed. I don’t know what else to do, if the word “can” has any meaning. Is that word even in my brain’s database? Who am I if I can’t save those that are the closest to me?
Logan sobbed and peered back at the picture. Never in a million years did the child standing in the bright red coat think that he would be trying to give others oxygen while clawing for breath himself. His back found its way to the blue-cotton city and his head to its hall.
Who can save me from my failure? From myself?
Fatigue trapped it’s prey for the night.
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