A Lapel Pin

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“And have you spoken to anyone about your experiences?”

“I guess.”

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“What did they say?”

“Nothing much.”

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“Why is that?”

I shrug. “Well, they were with me when it happened so there’s not much to say.”

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“Really? Why didn’t you mention this earlier in our sessions?”

“Didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

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“Well, what if they’re… you know.”

I look at her, waiting for her to finish.

“A bad influence on your path to recovery?”

I chuckle darkly. “That’s funny, Ms. Miller.”

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I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair I was just sitting in.

“With all due respect, Ms. Miller, my session is over.”

She blinks, her attention drawn momentarily to the clock on the wall. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a moment longer-?”

“No thank you,” I interrupt quickly. “I’m sure you have other people you need to see.”

With that, I turn around and walk out, not wanting to be confined by the same tan walls any longer. A color that supposedly made people feel calm. It only made me feel antsy and trapped, like a lab rat waiting to be experimented on.

I step into the waiting room, rubbing the back of my neck to ease some of the stiffness out. The room is almost completely empty, apart from the one man lounging in the corner. He doesn’t seem to work here, nor does he attend sessions, yet I still see him almost every week.

He looks up at me as I walk closer but my gaze is already locked on the floor.

“Your friend’s not here yet,” he tells me as I sit down, leaving a seat in between us.

I don’t like his voice. It’s too young to belong to someone who looks at least twenty. It’s too soft and eerily similar to the people who I come here to forget.

“Do you want some coffee?”

I glance over to see him offering a cup of coffee to me. He tilts it ever so slightly and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark liquid. My eyes look ragged; exhausted from seeing ghosts from the past.

I look away.

“I’m good.”

He laughs quietly and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“I didn’t drug it if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I cast him a wary look before shrugging, secretly grateful that he’s given me a plausible excuse to turn him down.

He doesn’t say anything else, but slides the coffee over to me.

As I look away from the coffee, he settles back in his seat, arms stretched behind his head. I hunch forward in my chair, interlocking my hands and watching my thumbs twiddle as I wait. I begin to count again.

1… 2… 3…

I hear the sound of clothes shuffling next to me and I tense up a bit.

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My nail digs into the side of my thumb, leaving a crescent shaped mark.

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I notice my leg shaking and I force it still.

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“Luca!”

My head snaps upwards.

“Sam,” I say, trying to keep myself from sounding too relieved.

Sam makes his way over to me, grinning sheepishly as he lifts up a plastic bag with what looks like containers of takeout in it.

“Sorry I was late. The line at the store was a little longer than usual.”

“But you get out of your session at least a half hour before me. There’s no way the line was that long,” I point out, although there’s no real malice to my tone.

Sam shrugs. He doesn’t bother trying to offer an excuse.

I stand up as Sam playfully offers his arm to me with a teasing grin. I ignore it. As an afterthought, I lean down to pick up the coffee and hand it to Sam, who accepts it with his free hand.

He glances at it, confused, before looking back at me. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. I think it’s black coffee. Your favorite.”

“From who?” he asks as I start to walk towards the doors, following after me.

“Him,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.

Sam glances backwards at the man in the chair. I keep my eyes focused forwards.

Sam nudges me. “You don’t like him,” he mutters.

“I don’t.”

“His face?”

“His voice.”

“Ah.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

As we exit the building Sam silently drops the cup of coffee into the trash can by the doors. 

*

Sam makes a show of kicking open the door and I step past him, carefully navigating my way through the mess that is our apartment. My foot knocks into a scratched up square stick of wood; torn from nights when one of us would wake up in a cold sweat, nails raking down whatever was closest.

Sam follows behind me, still clutching the takeout in his hands. I lead him past the couch where we alternate sleeping and towards the cramped kitchen. I absentmindedly pick at some rust on the tiny stove as I wait for Sam to unpack our lunch.

Lunch is a silent affair. Neither of us talk except to ask for something to be passed across the counter. 

It’s fine. We’re both lost in thought anyways. 

I stop chewing for a moment to swallow as Sam does the same. The silence is suddenly deafening and the hairs on my neck stand up. I can almost hear the ringing of the emergency bells.

I reach over and turn on the radio.

*

I’m working at my part time job as a cashier when a girl, no older than ten, comes up to me. She’s brandishing something small and silver like a shield.

“Can I buy this?” she shouts loudly as she approaches me, the top of her head barely peeking over the counter.

I smile softly, feeling a sudden heaviness in my bones at the sound of her youthful voice. “Hey, where’s your parents, girl…?”

My voice hitches as I realize what she’s holding. 

It’s just a small lapel pin with some sort of star design on it. It makes a little, metallic clicking sound as she shifts it around her thumb and forefinger.

She pouts. “They’re shopping somewhere.”

I take a deep breath to calm my racing nerves down.

“Well I’m afraid you’re going to need them to be able to buy anything,” I tell her in a mostly stable voice.

She frowns but, thankfully, accepts my answer and turns around. Right before she’s about to walk off, she turns back and drops the pin onto the counter.

“Hold onto this for me please!”

Then she’s off.

I stare at the lapel pin for a few moments. Finally, realizing that another customer has come up to me, I swipe it off the counter and kick it across the floor, not bothering to see where it slides.

When the girl comes back with her parents, she seems to have forgotten about the pin.

I don’t look at the ground for the rest of my shift.

*

I’m back in Ms. Miller’s office, staring at the checkered pattern rug. She’s talking about something that I’ve forgotten already.

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“Lucas?”

I blink, shifting my gaze to her shoes. She’s wearing sandals, the same color as the wall. Her dark red nail polish is chipped on her big toe.

“Lucas.”

“Sorry, what did you say?” I mumble, moving my gaze back to the rug.

“I was asking how you and that friend of yours are doing?”

That prompts me to look directly at her. It only lasts for a moment before I drop my gaze once again.

“Fine.”

She speaks again after a lengthy pause. “Are you sure you don’t have anything to share about them?”

My nails dig into my palm as her question reaches my ears. It distracts me from my numbers. I’ve lost count for the first time since I’ve been in here.

“No. I trust them. That’s all.”

The pause this time is even longer.

“You trust them completely?”

“Yeah.”

“They’ll stick with you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you sure?”

It’s my turn to pause, although the second I do I hate myself for the bit of doubt I feel. I shouldn’t have paused at all; I know he wouldn’t pause if he was asked this.

“Yes.”

Maybe she can sense the hostility in my words or the turmoil in my mind. Either way, she takes mercy and doesn’t pry any further.

As she starts a new topic, I start counting again.

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*

Sam isn’t late this time. He greets me cheerfully and I sort of nod at him. Although he spends a few minutes joking around and chatting, he quickly picks up on my somber mood and quiets down.

It’s not until we’re home that he finally decides to ask me about it.

“What’s on your mind, Luca?”

I shrug. My mind is screaming at me to just confide in him, to show him the trust he shows me, but something invisible is still holding me back.

So instead of lying, I just avert the question.

“I was just thinking about… you know. It.”

Sam’s face darkens.

“I see.”

The atmosphere stays tense after that, the tension following us all the way to nighttime. As I set down an old jacket on the floor as a makeshift pillow, Sam flops onto the ragged couch. I drop onto my back and watch him for a few moments. 

His brow is furrowed and he’s staring at the ceiling blankly. I can tell there’s about a thousand thoughts running through his head right now, so I wait for him to catch one and put it into words.

When he finally does, he shifts onto his side to look down at the floor where I’m lying. I look back at him.

“Do you think it was my fault?”

His question nearly makes me laugh. Nearly. If it weren’t for the fact that he looked dead serious while saying it, I would’ve started rolling around the floor clutching at my stomach.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

I scratch my head. “Sam. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. I was the one who dropped the pin.”

“I was the one who got you the pin.”

“So? You didn’t make me drop it. You weren’t the one who alerted them to our presence. You weren’t the reason that everyone there except us was murdered.”

I’m breathing heavily now, and although my words are slow and controlled, my mind is going into overdrive. Images of my old classmates are flashing in my head. A smiling girl with a missing tooth and blonde pigtails. A boy with wide, curious eyes and dark, spiky hair. Another boy with a bowl cut and too many questions about everything around him. A soft spoken lady with red hair and enough charm to calm a rowdy class of children down.

Why did I survive?

I push the question out of my head. If I’ve learned anything over the years, blaming myself is the one thing I can’t do.

It takes a while for me to realize Sam is talking again.

“What?”

“I said, don’t blame yourself. I know that’s what you’re doing right now.”

I smile bitterly. “Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

“Ah, you got me there,” Sam says sheepishly. His grin fades quickly though.

“I just…” he trails off, letting the sound of crickets coming from the cracked window fill the air. 

“I was dumb.”

“Kids are dumb. You just made a mistake,” I say softly.

“Most dumb kids don’t screw up that badly.”

“Well,” I clear my throat. “Kids don’t usually find themselves in a shooter emergency either.”

Sam is silent, but I can see the ghost of a grin on his lips as he flops a hand over his eyes. The tension isn’t completely gone, but it doesn't feel stifling anymore either.

“Do you regret it?”

My laugh is hoarse. “That’s a stupid question. You’d slap me if I were to ask you that.”

Sam laughs with me. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.”

Silence falls and although I don’t want to disturb this peaceful environment, what Ms. Miller said earlier today is nagging at me.

“Hey Sam.”

“What’s up?”

“...you’ll still be here in the morning, right?”

There’s a pause as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my muscles stiffening as the silence continues. He sure takes his sweet time in answering me.

I jolt slightly as I feel something hit the top of my head, but relax as soon as I realize Sam just tossed a container at me. I glance over at him to see he’s moved his hand and is giving me a playful grin.

“Don’t be such a worrywart, Luca. Of course I’ll be here.”

A small smile spreads across my face as I nudge my head deeper into the worn jacket to hide it from Sam. I know it’s dangerous to let my guard down so low, but I can’t help but indulge in the moment; allowing myself to be comforted by someone who understands me and what I’ve gone through.

What we’ve gone through.

“Then, I’ll see you in the morning,” I mumble.

The last thing I hear is Sam’s chuckle as he says “see you, dude” before slipping into a comfortable slumber.