white noise polaroid {duncan}

Pressed against that torn couch had been the time-lapse of those past four days, leather sticking to sweating skin when it was found absolutely necessary to leave its presence (though I had put a limit of five minutes maximum on this). Tweed had spent her time with me on and off again like the flickering light that hovered over my head, static like the screen in front of my eyes. I had attempted to make my worry known to Elverum’s sister the moment my feet had stumbled from the justice building, but with the shards of a shattered ashtray scattering across my shoulder, I had ducked out, shutting the door with cautiousness she had never seen.

She had lost my brother too.

But then I never knew what she had meant to him, for Owen spoke her name little to none, only breathed it into the morning air when he believed the morning sun to be his only spectator, (”Saffle.”) Lover first and brother to follow, I almost pitied her more than myself, for Tweed was waiting for me at the door that evening, when my heart had laid heavy within my chest. Her words had been hollow concern, and with a request for change of conversation we talked about our child, about the fears and hopes we held within our heart, each as prominent as the other.

Laying with her back pressed to my chest that night, I had asked if her if she believed Elverum would die, six words spoken into night air never to be answered by anything more than the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest, sleep coming simply to her soul, yet hesitant to my own, and with her song of complacency I watched the streetlamp outside our window until the moon rose high enough to be chased from my view.

I never asked again.

Instead obsessions formed in the personifications of time spent wasted on that leather couch, legs tangled without care as eyes focused on any flicker of the boy with high tide in his heart and waves in his lungs. Little to none was shown of him at first, glimpses shadowed by bigger names—careers and deaths alike, and for a moment I considered this a generous celebration, for the anthem sounded once, twice, three times, and his solemn stare had never once peered upon that frozen wasteland.

That fourth day was the time at which Tweed’s concern for my own health began to fester, for the previous three days she had spent her time with me in increments, and that which was not spent with her hand upon my back was spent in a way that only she knew. Temporarily I believed she was doing it for my sake, space and silence thought to be my companions, but the pace at which I tapped my fingers against my glass had increased with the passing hour, and when a third night passed in a half-empty bed she began to revel in the tenacity that my concern was not that of a healthy sort.

The morning of the fourth I awoke to her body pressed against my own, fingers trailing over my jawline in a manner resembling the sun that peaked over the horizon. Questions asked with an uneasiness I couldn’t deny I whipped my attention to the television, static breaking through the poignant voices—“Tweed, how long was I out?”

Her voice, quiet and calm, was differentiating from that of her normal tone, a warning flag stained red against the white background of my mind, “Not long enough, Duncan.” An attempt to pull myself to my feet is quickly meet by her hang upon my shoulder, a reassurance yet also a warning, the reminder of the lack of sleep lost in the spinning thoughts of my mind.

“Is he—”

“He’s still alive, Duncan.”

Sigh of relief; sigh of anxiety, I press myself back to that worn couch with feelings of both tangled in my chest. The afternoon sun already beginning to make its descent—just a few hours and it’s day five—just a few hours and he’s home. In the end, all is measured in minutes anyway.

The blood of others flows and pain numbs in each pulse of my heart, cannons sound—one, two—and the canopy of trees cuts back to my field of vision. My fingers tighten, breath catching as the sight of Elverum comes back into view. Separated from those he had shared previous company with he finds his footsteps alone, each pace uneven as he holds a bag struggling with something alive. I shoot a quick, questioning glance in Tweed’s direction and she speaks only a single word, “Mutt.”

Breath caught; thought lost, I watched with nothing else than the worry of uncertainty that could only be found as I watched him struggle toward a destination unknown. And so it seemed, for only a moment at most, that he had found security in that forest of shattered screams and breaking hopes, but with the silence that hung over the panning camera it seemed that this could not truly be so.

Passing minutes; lost moments in time; I press myself to that couch as if it were the sanctity of that hiding place, a refuge from the shrill screams of the mutts that push themselves into to the hidden realm of Elverum Troshaldr.

Mutts slice at porcelain skin and I cry out, a struggle to make my way to the screen ensues but Tweed’s frame locks tight against my own, pressing me back into that couch against my wishes.

Cannon sounds—once—and I watch with empty gaze and broken stare until the camera flickers to the view of another, locked in simple combat without deathly repercussions. Hollow heart; empty mind, I turn my attention to the girl beside me, her gaze still lingering on the static screen. She reaches quickly, flicking off the picture with one quick motion as she sits back to her former position, eyes turning upon me to see the reaction that’s sure to come, but I see no perceivable reason why it should.

“That wasn’t him.”

She exhales softly, a single breath resounding against those heavy walls, yet followed by a hand placed upon my shoulder, a gentle touch I can all but resist leaning in to as the floor begins to waver beneath my feet. Never one for physical consolation she surprises me, pulling me back to her hold as the words plays over and over only inches from my ear “I’m so sorry, Duncan.”

I do not flinch when she brushes the hair that’s fallen in front of my eyes, or when she suggests that we leave that worn couch. Instead, I only nod, letting her steady my balance as I find a change in scenery for the first time in several days prior, and between those cold sheets I stare at the ceiling with every intention of avoiding sleep if at all possible.

Tweed’s even breathing brings me back to the awareness of a world that’s kept on turning, and though the thick darkness that’s settled over the room I reach for the bedside drawer, fingers fumbling over pieces of crumpled paper with messages never to be read, pens that have long since run out of ink, and the Polaroid tucked against the corner. The only polaroid Elverum had ever let me keep hold of for longer than a moment was that of my brother, the sail to a ship we promised to set off, yet never had the chance for we had been pulled under by every breaking wave.

Penned into my mind I promised to write an inscription on its back for the boy who was lost, the one who was forgotten, and the one who would never be.

(“Owen Bowers-Fox; Elverum Troshaldr; Duncan Bowers-Fox—past to present, still timeless in death’s wake.”)

Silent cannon never sounding I was, though it seemed my heart beat to the same rhythm as theirs.