As tends to follow

I have no idea how to post a link so here's the story i've sent to the jam. hopefully it'll be published but if not at least you lot can bask in it's brilliance.

I like Allie

I walked into my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. It was night time and the lights were off. I was alone. I looked out of the window and into the darkness. There was a flickering of white light somewhere far away. I closed my eyes.

And then, as tends to follow, it was morning. And with morning came morning’s closest accomplice; my closest friend: nostalgic neuralgia, and hey, all that nostalgia can be a real headache. That morning I was remembering my little sister and the trips we used to take to the lake in the park.

“Ethan,” she’d say, for Ethan is my name.

“Yes Clare,” I’d say, for Clare is her name.

“My teacher told me that in every cloud there lives a thousand fairies.”

I looked out of the window and into the brightness. There were no fairies in the sky, just the sun and the sunshine. That was good. I liked it more when the sun was out. At least when the sun is out there is little risk of there being rain. When the sun is out everybody you see is walking around with a fake smile plastered on their stupid fucking faces. Everyone is smiling like something good is going on, like life isn’t shit and happening to us all. What really scares me though is when people walk around with a smile on their face in the rain; those bastards may actually be happy with their lives, and boy, that really is scary.

Anyway, back to the morning of which I tell my tale. I can’t remember accurately enough the date; but I do know that it was during the incomprehensible part of the year between summer and winter, when the weather has no direct affiliation with bitter cold or beaming sun. I remember needing to wear a thin sweater rather than a thick jumper. That is how I know it couldn’t have been cold that morning. After dressing I walked downstairs and ate toast for breakfast. I ate toast for breakfast every morning.

I sat down on the floor of my living room and reflexively turned on the television, in the same way that I reflexively go to the toilet when I need a piss and reflexively cry when I need to cry. There was a drama on channel 1 about guns and gun crime, or maybe it was the news; with a police officer grimly reporting on the death of a teenager in a quiet suburb, yet secretly smiling at his successful break into television and fame. I reflexively turned the television off, in the way I do whenever I think something painful could be real. After breakfast I left the house. After breakfast I always left the house.

I had been walking for five minutes before I realised just how quiet it was. I checked the time and I remember it being early, but not that early; not early enough for there to be no-one on the streets. There was no one on the streets but me. There was no one on the streets but her and me.

“Hello Ethan,” she smiled, for back then Ethan was my name.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me?”

“No. Who are you?”

“It’s me,” she said, “Clare,” she said, for her name was Clare back then.

“What?”

“Put the gun down Ethan.”

“What gun?” I looked down at my hand. I was holding a gun in my hand. Things were real. I was scared. I would’ve turned the television off but it wasn’t on the television. It was in my hand. I looked back up at Clare, for back then her name was Clare. My name was Ethan and her name was Clare. They made me change the names and the places and the time and the weather, but I promise you I’m not lying this time. My name was Ethan and her name was Clare. Her name is Chloe now. I like Chloe.

But Chloe is dead.