It was a dark, moonless night.
And yet it had started like any other night. Well, almost.
Today’s event of the Eltingville Comic Book, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Role-Playing Club was hosted directly at Bill’s house, specifically his rather, erm, unflattering basement. That thing was filled with stacks of comics threatening to avalanche, many (at least 4) towers of VHS tapes labeled with masking tape, a few half-finished model kits, and many, many other things.
Among them, hanging next to a half-ripped poster of Midnight Cabaret — formerly one of Bill’s guilty pleasures — was a framed headshot of a stern-looking man in a beret. He seemed funny. Below it, in serif font, the caption read: “V.I. LENIN”. No one knew why Bill had it. In fact, no one asked anymore. Maybe it was ironic, maybe it was a product of his making, maybe he just found it in the trashcan (likely) and no one bothered to take it down.
What was weirder was that his mom let it stay.
But then again, she wasn’t here tonight — neither was his little sister Jane, a rare feat for both. They were visiting his dad for the weekend, and of course, didn’t invite him. He may not have said he wanted to go along, but couldn’t they ask him at least!? It was an act of betrayal so immense that Judas would rise up and congratulate them himself. Bill hadn’t seen his dad in years — in fact, he hadn’t even heard his voice in longer than he liked to admit.
He wasn’t entirely sure if this was his choice or not. It had just… happened. His mom moved on, Jane stayed close to him, but he didn’t. Not that he cared. Well, not really. Sure, his mom smiled more when Jane was in the room. And yeah, Jane got the bigger slices of cake for a record 5 years and counting. And okay, just maybe, she didn’t roll her eyes quite as often when Jane talked.
But it was fine. Whatever. He had friends anyway — and they were here with him.
This also meant that no one was there to yell at them for still being awake. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.
His friend Josh had spent about 45 minutes outright praising his new favorite movie, Ed, although there was not much he could say besides, “It’s that movie where that guy from Friends plays baseball with a chimp.” (The 90s were really into monkey business.) Still, he insisted it was avant-garde enough and that it was wrongfully snubbed from the Oscars and the Golden Razzies. A rather tired Bill had to cut him off.
Instead, he said, they should partake in a game which he described — rather loudly — as the final frontier of masculine intellect: dominoes, baby. He promptly opened the inside of his dark, plaid overshirt to grab a bag full of them.
Josh groaned. “Can’t we just watch anime, jack off and fall asleep like normal people?”
“No,” Bill snapped. He slapped the domino box on the card table. “Because I’m not gonna let you conk out halfway through Lupin III: Farewell to Nostradamus again. You keep disrespecting film. And then you come up with something like ‘oh, but Killer Virgin Space Monkey VI: Return of the Bogles is the best movie I’ve ever seen’, and then we see it, and it’s just total horseshit.”
His friend Pete was already fading, and his eyelids were drooping as he leaned back in his chair — while nursing a half-flat bottle of corn whiskey that he’d swiped from his uncle’s cabinet. It was fancy. “The fuck is a bogle?”
“Do I look like I know?”
Trying to get them to focus on something more useful, Jerry chimed in, squinting at the dominoes. “Uh, you got any rules for this?”
“Well, it’s just standard play,” Bill said. He rapidly straightened the row of dominoes. “We draw seven. First to ten wins. And if any of you morons challenge a double without math-checking, I swear to God—”
“Jesus, Bill,” Josh muttered. “This isn’t like a fantasy draft. Isn’t it kinda late for these things anyway—”
Bill pointed a domino at him. “Unlike you people, I actually respect the game. So we’re doing it my way.”
The matches began, and rather poorly. Josh spent more time flipping tiles for fun than playing. It’s not as if he didn’t know how to play the game, of course; it’s that he felt so fatigued from the previous discussion that his five remaining brain cells refused to communicate with each other. Pete got bored after five rounds and started playing with his Game Boy. Thank God for Wario Land: Super Mario Land 3, he thought. And Jerry stuck with it, partly out of spite, and partly because Bill was invested; watching him get worked up was its own kind of entertainment.
At some point, Josh stood and stretched. “Alright. I’m calling it. My spine’s folding like an accordion.”
Bill didn’t even look up. “Coward.”
“What?”
“I meant ‘later.’”
“Oh.”
Josh shrugged, slinging on his hoodie. “Say hi to your mom for me, dumbass.”
He gave him the middle finger back.
Honestly, Bill didn’t hate Josh. Alright, maybe just a bit. He didn’t despise him, of course, but they had such a complicated relationship at times that he thought it was best to just pretend he didn’t exist sometimes. Today was one of those days.
And so they continued.
Pete actually left not long after. He lingered by the stairs while Bill reset the dominoes. “Y’know, I should head out too. I got work in the morning.”
“Ugh,” Bill grunted. “Since when do you care about work?”
“Since I started paying for my own toothpaste,” Pete said, showing a half-grin. “Someone’s gotta help the family, see.”
He snorted. “Sounds like hell.”
“I know!”
Pete had started working at a movie theater in the outskirts of town a few months ago. The surprising part was not that he was working, as hard as that may have seemed to believe, but the fact he was the first out of everyone to work. It was nothing too special, though — he mostly tore tickets, cleaned soda spills, and played horror movies for aging Gen-Xers who clapped when the credits rolled. It was actually pretty boring.
Given how far it was from his actual home, it wasn’t as viable to get all the gang together there. They’d been there maybe once together and that’s it; one good thing about it was that it sold popcorn in buckets shaped like Oscar statues. It was funny, too. And it would’ve been better if the place wasn’t a sanctuary for losers and other clinically underachieving people — which didn’t include him, obviously.
As Pete made it halfway up the stairs, Bill unexpectedly moved towards him — and fast, too, like he’d been debating it in his head the whole time. He gave him a short, awkward hug. It was quick, and admittedly wasn’t much of a hug at all. It was more of a shoulder bump, to be fair. Pete froze, surprised.
“Stay safe, dumbass,” Bill muttered.
Pete blinked. He looked momentarily surprised, but managed a small smile. “Uh. Yeah. You too.”
He glanced at Jerry, gave a nod, and trudged up the basement stairs, the door thudding shut behind him. He was gone.
The two remaining members of what ended up a pretty boring meeting, Jerry and Bill sat in silence for a second.
“Aww. Didn’t think you were a hugger,” Jerry said.
Bill sat back down, adjusting his pajama waistband. “Oh s-shut up. He looked tired.”
Now only Jerry remained, and he was hunched over the table in his sweater, a tapestry-patterned one that, honestly, looked nice — though obviously Bill would never admit that. His hair stuck up at odd angles from hours of frustrated tugging. It was amusing.
“So… just you and me now. We continuing this or what?”
Bill smirked. “Prepare to be obliterated.”
“Heh. We’ll see.”
And so they restarted the game. The basement felt different now with just the two of them. Quieter, obviously. Perhaps a bit too quiet; sure, there was no actual need to be loud right now, even though he couldn’t care less about what the neighbors would think, but it was very quiet. Without half of the club, Bill could actually hear himself think. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
It would’ve been better if he just turned on his CD player, but at that point, it was late, and he was too lazy to get up and find something to play. If Josh wasn’t as annoying, he’d have turned on Pitchshifter’s Desensitized hours ago. And so they continued in silence.
“Your move,” Jerry said, placing a domino.
“I know it’s my move,” Bill snapped. “I’m thinking.”
Jerry rolled his eyes. “I mean, there’s like three possibilities. It’s not rocket science.”
“Ever heard of strategy, dickhead? I don’t think you understand this.”
“Pfft. You lost the last three rounds and you wanna talk about ‘strategy’?”
Bill’s face flushed. Little prick. He slammed down a tile that didn’t match, causing his friend to chuckle.
“That doesn’t connect, buck,” Jerry pointed out.
“What?”
“Six and three. You need a five or a two.”
Huh. Bill stared at the dominoes, then at his hand. His jaw clenched. Indeed, it was wrong, and he got distracted. “Fuck. Give me that back.”
“Nah.” Jerry smirked. “Rules are rules. Draw a tile.”
“Oh that’s bullshit.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to play this stupid game!”
“Because everything else you guys suggest is garbage!” Bill shouted, suddenly way louder than necessary. His voice echoed in the basement. The good news is that, most likely, no one would intervene to stop him. That is, assuming Joshzilla and Pete hadn’t decided to stay a while longer, scavenge his room for his prized collections (he barely left anything up there!) and sell it to the highest bidder. It’d be fitting, but it wasn’t the time to think about that.
He continued. “I can’t even suggest the things I want without you losers drowning it in shit. And now I ask us to play a game and everyone just keeps complaining. Fuck this. If I wanted nagging, I’d buy a clockwork wife.”
Jerry stared at him. “Jesus, Bill. It’s just dominoes.”
“It’s not about the fucking dominoes!”
“Then what is it about?”
He didn’t reply.
After a moment or so in silence, Jerry sighed, slumping back in his chair. “You know what? I’m calling it too.”
“What?” Bill’s head shot up. “Hell no. We’re in the middle of a game — a very solid one for me too—”
“It’s almost 1 a.m. dude. I’m tired.”
“Oh, so you’re just gonna bail like the others?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” Jerry pushed his chair back. The metal legs screeched rather loudly against the concrete floor.
Bill’s face darkened. It was impressive — every time he wanted to do something cool for the club, they wanted to do something else that was not only much less cool, but also sucked. Who could be against a game of dominoes? He had enough of this. Bill swept his hand across the table, scattering the once carefully placed dominoes everywhere. Several clattered to the grimy linoleum floor. “That’s it. Get the fuck outta my house,” he snapped.
Jerry chuckled and gave him a slow, sarcastic salute. “Aye aye, Mein Führer.”
“Bitch.”
“You know what, Bill?” Jerry’s voice was low, though quite tight. “Fuck you.”
He blinked, taken aback for a second. “What the hell did you just say to me?”
“I said, FUCK. YOU.” Jerry repeated, louder this time, stepping closer. “Like Jesus, man. What’s going on with you? You’re a fucking dick, Bill. Always have been.”
Sensing his face was reddening, Bill puffed up. “Oh yeah? Says who? You couldn’t last a 5-minute round with me and now you’re gonna pretend you’re all high and mighty and moral and shit?”
“It’s not that!” he jabbed a finger towards Bill. “But everything’s gotta be your way! Everyone else is always wrong, always stupid! But not you, no, you’re perfect. You’re like ‘the greatest man who’s ever been sold’. But us? Nah, we’re incompetent pieces of trash.”
“You’re right on that.”
Jerry sighed. “W-why do we even hang out with you, Bill? Seriously! What the fuck is wrong with us?”
“Well, I don’t care what you dipshits think of me. Anyway. Get. OUT!” Bill roared.
“Gladly!” Jerry shot back. He was tired of getting treated like this. For years now, Bill ran the club like it was some sort of circus, in which he was one of the animals subject to cruel abuse. It was terrible. The fact that only now he was taking some courage to say things that should’ve been said a long time ago made him shiver a bit.
He turned, took a step towards the stairs, then whipped back around. “You know, sometimes I think you actually enjoy being miserable and making everyone else miserable too!”
“Shut your goddamn mouth, Stokes!”
“Like, what the hell. Is this about your dad or—”
Bill froze. “Don’t.”
“Oh! So that’s why your mom isn’t around.”
“I SAID don’t!” Bill slammed the domino box shut and threw it at the wall — one where there wasn’t anything expensive to ruin. There were still a few dominoes inside — ones that, unbeknownst to Bill, Pete had been hiding to get an advantage —, and they also fell all over the place. “Jesus fucking Christ, do you ever shut up?”
Jerry stepped closer. “Or what? Please enlighten me on your bullshit.”
At that point, something in Bill snapped. He had enough of this. Lunging forward, he shoved Jerry hard. “Get away from me!”
Though Jerry stumbled back, he shoved Bill in return, harder than he intended. “Don’t touch me, asshole! What have I done to deserve this crap from you?”
“I hate you!” Bill shouted, and before he could think, his fist connected with Jerry’s face. Though it was hardly the strongest punch and, had he thought more about it, it would’ve been a slap instead, it was still a punch. In fact, it was a full-on punch that caught Jerry right in the nose.
There was a sickening crunch. Jerry’s head snapped back, and he fell hard onto the basement floor. For a moment, the basement was completely silent except for the sound of Jerry’s ragged breathing.
At that point, blood poured from his nose, staining his sweater. He stared up at Bill in shock, one hand coming up to touch his face. What the hell. When he pulled it away, his fingers were covered in blood as well.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, looking at the crimson smear. “You actually hit me.”
He would be lying if he said this didn’t happen before. He had fought with Pete, Josh and Bill on a couple of occasions, but it was nothing like this. When they hit each other, they at least knew it would happen. And okay, maybe he got a bit overboard here — but the other two would never hit him because of fucking dominoes. That hurt him.
Bill stood frozen, staring at his own fist in horror. Somehow, he didn’t expect that. All his anger evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, sickening dread. “Jerry, I—I didn’t mean—”
“Fuck you,” Jerry said quietly. His voice was thick as blood dripped down his chin. He tried to stand but slipped back down.
Bill reached out to help him. “Let me—”
“Don’t touch me!” Jerry shouted, scrambling backward. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
“I-I’m sorry,” Bill said, his voice cracking. “Look, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—p-please don’t leave.”
Jerry managed to get to his feet, though with one hand cupped under his nose to catch the blood. He really needed to clean this up. He looked at Bill with a mixture of hurt and disgust that made Bill’s stomach turn.
“Please,” Bill said again. He tried to maintain his tone, though it was not hard to guess he was a bit desperate. “Please don’t go. Well, not like this.”
No word came out of Jerry’s mouth. He just glared at the other boy through watering eyes as blood continued to run down his face. He wasn’t gonna die or anything, but it would’ve been good if he could stop it as soon as possible.
“Um, you’re bleeding bad,” Bill said, his voice much smaller now. “Fuck. At least let me help you stop the bleeding before you go.”
Jerry hesitated a bit, then gave a stiff nod. “Bathroom,” he mumbled through his hand.
“Y-yeah, yeah. Upstairs. I think Mom keeps the first aid stuff under the sink.”
Tired, Jerry turned and made his way slowly up the stairs, refusing Bill’s offered hand. Some droplets of blood dripped onto the steps as he went.
When Jerry disappeared from view, Bill sank down onto the bottom step, head in his hands. What the hell had he done? This wasn’t their normal bullshit. He’d crossed a line. He’d actually hurt Jerry.
In the upstairs bathroom, Jerry leaned over the sink, watching his blood swirl down the drain as he tried to clean his face. His nose wasn’t broken, thankfully — he’d had enough schoolyard fights to know what that felt like — but it had bled a lot. His sweater was probably ruined.
It was a nice sweater too; his grandma got it for him for his 15th birthday. It was too big back then, but it fit much better now. But Jerry never expected it to look like this, especially not under this very specific set of circumstances.
He didn’t even bother looking for the first aid kit; he just stuffed some toilet paper up his nose and sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at the surprisingly shiny lime green bathroom tiles. Why the hell did he still hang out with Bill? Why did any of them? The guy was impossible. Always had been.
Well, maybe not always. He first met him at fourth grade, maybe. Jerry had just transferred in — his mom had dragged them halfway across the state for a job she’d end up quitting six months later — and he didn’t know a single soul. The other kids weren’t cruel, exactly, but it didn’t help that he didn’t make many friends at the start.
And then this kid with a dumb plastic pirate sword showed up one day, and gave him a five-minute history lesson on some Golden Age hero that probably didn’t exist, complete with sound effects and sword-swinging reenactments. Jerry thought Bill was a little insane, but he also thought he was alright.
A while later they met Josh, and later Pete, then eventually came that whole stupid club they built. And through it all, Bill was… well, he was loud for sure. And very much bossy, which was an understatement. But he wasn’t always like this.
Jerry’s eyes stung, and he told himself it was just from the pain in his nose. No. He wasn’t crying, no. Not over this. Not over Bill fucking Dickey.
But as he sat there alone in the too-bright bathroom, a few tears escaped anyway. He was seventeen years old, bleeding and crying in his asshole friend’s bathroom at one in the morning. One could think he was drunk, or even high, but no. He was just very confused. What the hell was he doing with his life?
Why couldn’t he have better friends? Normal friends who didn’t treat him like garbage or make him feel like shit all the time? He wiped angrily at his eyes with a piece of toilet paper. Sure, he liked the others, but sometimes he felt like everyone had gotten meaner over time. Maybe it wasn’t just Bill who changed. Maybe they all had. The days of everyone giggling, laughing, and playing cowboys and angels were long over. His biggest failure was not letting this moment last longer. And he could never forgive him for this.
Five, maybe ten minutes passed as he sat there, getting his emotions under control, waiting for the bleeding to stop completely.
Eventually, Jerry removed the toilet paper from his nose, checked in the mirror one last time to make sure the bleeding had stopped — it did —, and headed back downstairs. Bill was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, head in his hands. He looked up when he heard Jerry coming. He didn’t seem too happy either, but he also looked relieved.
“O-oh! You’re still here,” he said, standing quickly.
Jerry shrugged. “Where else am I gonna go at this hour? Especially like this?”
“Look, Jerry, I—”
“Save it,” Jerry cut him off. He was too tired for apologies right now, especially one which probably wouldn’t be genuine. “Your mom’s gonna kill you if she sees blood on her floor.”
Bill looked down at the drops of blood on the steps and basement floor. Well, Jerry made a good point. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Probably.”
They stood in awkward silence for a moment.
“You know, it’s late,” Bill finally said. “You should stay over.”
At first, Jerry hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night here, but it was a long walk home, and his nose had only just stopped bleeding. “I don’t know…”
“Come on,” an insistent Bill continued. “It’s after one. Please just crash here.”
After a long moment, Jerry sighed. “Fine. But I’m not sleeping on that shitty basement couch. My back’s still fucked from last time.”
Something like relief washed over Bill’s face. “Yeah, no, of course. You can take the living room couch. It’s way better.”
They trudged upstairs in silence. In the living room, Bill hastily cleared some magazines off the sofa — he was pretty sure they were his sister’s, and she hadn’t even opened them — while Jerry stood awkwardly by the TV, arms crossed.
“I’ll grab you a blanket,” Bill said, hurrying down the hallway to the linen closet.
Jerry sat on the edge of the couch, feeling the exhaustion of the night hit him all at once. His nose still throbbed dully, and he could feel the beginning of what would probably be a decent bruise tomorrow. On top of that, he was tired.
He heard Bill rummaging around, then returning with a soft blue blanket that Jerry vaguely recognized. That blanket was actually his mom’s favorite, and previously belonged to Bill at one point. As he aged up, however, Jerry thought they just got rid of it or gave it away. It was cool to know it was still around.
“Here,” Bill said, awkwardly offering the blanket. “It’s, uh, it’s my mom’s. But it’s the warm one.”
He took it without a word, and unfolded it over his legs.
Bill stood there for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You need anything else? Water? Aspirin?”
“I’m fine.”
“Y-you sure you don’t need the bed?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Cool.”
But Bill didn’t leave. He tried to tuck the blanket around Jerry’s legs but gave up halfway. Thinking of what else to say next, he stuffed his hands in his pajama pockets.
“What?” Jerry finally asked, though not looking up.
Bill took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. Like, seriously.”
Jerry didn’t respond, instead staring at the blanket in his lap, but kept listening.
“I-I didn’t mean to punch you, really,” Bill continued, his voice unusually subdued. It wasn’t exactly true… but it wasn’t entirely false, either. “I got… I got mad, yeah, but I never should’ve—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jerry cut him off.
“It does, though. I crossed a line. I just…” Bill trailed off, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Ugh, I fucked up. Bad. It shouldn’t have happened.”
Jerry stayed silent. The side of his nose was starting to swell, and the skin felt tight. It was a weird feeling.
Eventually, Bill finally looked at him directly. “Do you like me?”
That question caught Jerry off guard. He looked up, trying to keep his voice steady, but failing a bit.
“What?”
“Yeah, as a person. Do you actually like me?”
Jerry struggled with the question. His eyes burned slightly, but he held it together. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking. It was honestly harder than he expected to reply here. A few years ago it would’ve definitely been a yes — but he couldn’t just look at him and say “no”.
Bill looked away, misinterpreting the silence. “You don’t have to answer. I get it.”
“Well. You’re my friend,” Jerry finally managed.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Once again, a heavy silence fell between them. Bill stood there, looking smaller somehow, perhaps more vulnerable than Jerry had ever seen him. Perhaps his inability to answer a basic question was only hurting Bill too. The poor guy felt like he’d been punched himself. Fifteen minutes earlier and Jerry would have had a completely different reaction, but it wasn’t hard to see that sowing was amazing, reaping not as much.
After what felt like forever, Jerry took a deep breath. “Compared to the rest of the town, we’re saints, you know?”
Bill gave a short, humorless laugh. “Uh, that’s a pretty low bar.”
“Yeah, well.” Jerry stared at his hands. “Sometimes I feel just as dirty as any of them.”
He was more of a sinner than a saint, and it wasn’t hard for anyone to see that. It was the only thing of which he was most proud of and, at the same time, most regretful of. Still thinking about Bill’s question though, he came forward with a question that had been in his mind for a while now. Finally, he looked up.
“Do you hate me?”
“What? N-no!” Bill replied quickly, almost desperately. “No, of course not. I could never.”
Jerry closed his eyes and tried his best not to give in to the emotion rising in his throat. “Okay,” he said quietly after a moment.
Though worry still lingered in Bill’s eyes, he seemed less sad now. “I really think we should rest now. So, uh… good night, Jerry,” he said softly.
“Night,” Jerry replied, giving him a sad half-smile before turning away and burying his face in one of the couch pillows. He hoped those wouldn’t be stained tomorrow.
Bill hesitated for a moment before flicking off the living room light. In the darkness, with just the glow of the street lamp filtering through the curtains, Jerry heard Bill’s footsteps retreating down the hall.
He sighed.
Alone on the couch, Jerry pressed his face deeper into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to think about the fact that this — this twisted friendship that hurt him and still tried to make amends — was the best he had. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe someday they’d figure out how to be friends without tearing each other apart.
A moment later, he heard Bill’s bedroom door close, and the house fell silent except for a ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, counting down the hours until morning.
The last thing he could remember before dozing off was the harmonica sounds he heard in his head. Every time he felt stressed, he would play its tunes over and over in his head. It was funny, perhaps, but it was also quite refreshing. Although Jerry never played or even owned a harmonica, curiously, he knew someone who did.
If he was lucky enough… maybe they’d wake him up tomorrow with it.