samson mitchell. 18. resident jesus freak, less resident everything else.
“i used to think that if i dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, i’d know it was something true. now i’m trying to dig deeper.” — richard siken
Mackenzie stood in front of a lamp post trying to tape up several posters for the Animal Rescue Fair. She was just getting the height perfect when the wind picked up and several papers flew away. “Hey, wait!” she yelled to the papers that obviously couldn’t hear her. She turned to him with urgency, “Can you get thoshe?”
There was a carton of a cigarettes in his glovebox, the first pack he bought himself. They christened him as a smoker—a real one, which was a distinction Samson generally avoided—and that day, he was more interested in them than going home right after his shift ended. He slipped one out of the pack before getting sidetracked, and it hung between his lips still unlit. “Yeah,” it was quiet, a little more than noncommittal. The flyers dropped at the side of his sneakers, and Samson went up to the pole. “Where did you want them, by the way? I can definitely help, if that’s what you need.”
What books are they? I have a friend who gave me Dorian Gray for my birthday, but he swears that books are always better than the movie versions. He hasn’t read The Shining, though, so I don’t have to hear how wrong it is compared to the book. Right, that’ll probably work.
Well, technically—summer hasn’t even started yet. What’s the rush? I usually just SparkNotes everything, it works well at least half of the time, so that’s a pretty good success rate.
characters: Samson, his dad. Rough mentions of his mom.
location: His house, more specifically in the kitchen, in the living room.
timeline: Thursday, May 10th, 2012. Freshman year, more notably the day his mom died.
notes: thanks to maggie stiefvater for giving me muse for this, most specifically because of this post. unnecessarily long self-para, as usual.
warnings: death mention, and does punching a wall count as violence?
Fact: your gut knows more than you do. Samson knew it from passing, and it was a little thing that tugged on the back of his mind some mornings. It was the type of thing some of his teachers would say—the teachers he’d had in most schools who switched around assignment dates and who tried to get closer to Samson, asking how his mom was doing and if there was anything he needed to talk about he could “come to them.” He’d gotten the offer more times than he could count, whether he was early to class or one of the last to get out. It was an offer to stay in those teachers’ classrooms for lunch, an offer that was supposed to sound irresistible. The thing they didn’t know was that it was less than desirable; Samson was even less likely to talk to them out of extra help than he was his dad. Death was one of those things that went better ignored, especially one that loomed. Samson never said that either—it was an extra layer added to him that he didn’t need. He thought his teachers kept asking because he needed the supposed support, because his guidance counselor said talking would help. But he didn’t talk to her either, and that was why emails were sent. There was supposed to be some sort of trust between teachers and students, right? That’s how teachers in health class movies made it seem, how Samson vaguely felt during church.
Like he was supposed to tell somebody how he felt, as if that would ever happen. He even only prayed for good things, how it would go away but he never specified how. Making it go away wasn’t specific enough. Going away, in the case of what his mother had, meant barely two things: the first was somehow, the cells would figure out their right order—it had been explained to him more than once, with a look on a doctor’s face meaning it probably wouldn’t happen—, and things would go back to the way they were, a little over four years ago. The second meant that she would die, and that Samson and his dad would have to pack up for Boston, for a few days, and they’d leave her there. That was the more realistic option of the two, even more since the move to Heffes made everything feel a little more hopeless. A little more unreal, that was the only way Samson could think to explain it. Maybe it was the lack of time he’d had since freshman year started, or how old movie nights faded into more appointments his dad had to drive her to. He couldn’t imagine how they felt, because even Samson tried to get away with skipping out on normal doctor appointments. He felt poked at, hated the questions about his sleep schedule, how eventually they stopped asking him about that and made him feel neurotic.
But hers weren’t like that, so said a feeling in his gut after she’d been admitted into the hospital yet again. There were fewer questions, more poking, and little things to make her more comfortable. Amenities, that’s how he remembered nurses calling them. Hospital rooms were cold, and when there was less IVs to a bed, Samson would cozy up in the covers before the nurses noticed him. He spent too much time in one of those soft cushion-y chairs now, knees pulled up to his chin. He nodded off like that, hoping the same teachers were so ready to hear him talk were understand when he said most of his time now was spent in a hospital, when he said they could call his dad for more.
Ultimately, those phone calls were unneeded. Samson knew the way it worked: each one of his teachers was emailed the day it happened, and he was the only one with that funny feeling in his gut when he woke up. There was a bad taste in his mouth, too, one he chalked up to anxiety as he changed that morning before going downstairs. His dad wasn’t waiting for him at the table since real life wasn’t a movie. And everything was the same as always. There was a smell of a burnt pot of coffee hanging in the air, his dad’s coffee mug and a cereal bowl filled with water in the sink. He’d come in, straightening his tie before he told Samson that it was time to go to school. Samson set his head on the table, hair fanning over his face so that he couldn’t see anything. It was a signal that meant he didn’t want to go to school, one that meant his anxiety spiked enough that he didn’t feel normal. It was undisputed that even on these days he’d go to school, if only because his dad didn’t trust him enough for him to stay home by himself. His breakfast would be scarfed down in under three minutes, and Samson would be dropped off at school.
Things looking normal didn’t translate to them being normal, though, and Samson was better off not changing for school that morning. He wasn’t really listening as he was told. He learned in church how to make it look like you were listening, and learned even better how fast heavy things stuck in. It was slowly, past the words.
His father said, “I’m sorry,” and then he said, “We’re lucky,” quietly, like he was even ashamed of thinking about it. Even faith didn’t make it lucky, and then he said that, “God doesn’t make accidents, not about life or death.” That was when Samson stopped listening, because it felt like a lie. Even if he knew it would eventually happen, he’d always thought that he’d be able to see him graduate. See it with her own two eyes, and there would be both of them clapping as he took his diploma and shook the principal’s hand. All the moments he saw were like this, in Kodak-style snapshots. There wasn’t anything special about them.
Samson was quietly brought out of thoughts by a tight hug, hand flattening his hair in a way that felt familiar. Mom-like. It was like his dad had gotten a briefing on what he was supposed to do, and Samson wasn’t sure what to do because he’d never gotten close enough with a person to know how to say goodbye. He said “I love you,” every time he left the hospital room and that felt different than any of this did. He knew that he was supposed to be crying, and insisting that he was fine once he came back to school—as if it mattered to anyone else, he just knew that there was a certain degree of being genuine that neither of them seemed to be good at. He wished he’d gotten the same briefing, because then at least he’d be prepared for the feeling in his gut and the taste of realized anxiety in his mouth. His head was telling him to calm down, that being angry wasn’t worth it and Samson barely noticed himself pulling away from the hug and his fingers sliding across the wood paneling of the living room. His fingers explored little impurities in the groves, and he barely noticed one of his hands curling into a fist.
He felt the pain of afterwards, and he was more okay with that. His dad drove him to the hospital instead of school. Samson complained about a crack in the middle of his fingers the whole way there. It goes without saying it was his first time punching something, and he had the cast on for weeks after to prove it.
“You should absolutely take it as a compliment. Vied for by more than he isn’t, that’s for sure, but I don’t mind waiting. You’ll have to save me a dance next time; prom can be fun, with the right people. He is – by name only, though you didn’t hear that from me.”
What if by the time you’re with your Gatsby he’s old? Okay, I’ll save you a dance and we can say Cheers to next senior year— because, hopefully, I’ll only have to repeat it once, and I can graduate with the class of 2016.
“Oh no, I was there, just – caught up in keeping everyone in check. Aw, Sammy, don’t worry about me; I’ve found my Gatsby…he just isn’t mine yet. Tell me you had a good time, though?”
Should I take that as a compliment? That I’m not messy enough to be kept in check, I mean. And isn’t he vied for by most of the school? I don’t know, I didn’t do much—as usual, I guess. Left early, kind of, and do you know the deal on Josiah? He’s a Ruler, right?
It’s not a huge deal, but it’s an indication of which players are going to get the most playing time next season. And if I’m not even invited to play, that just sucks all around.
Hey, but you won’t have to be stuck always practicing and things like that? So, at least you can do normal summer things— watching movie until 3 AM and inviting your friends over to watch them with you. That’s a good side, isn’t it?
Of course. If they’re installed, they’ll be accessible to everyone. If you read the top of the petition, they’ll be single stall rooms, so they’ll be much better than just having a “handicap” stall in the pre-existing bathrooms.
Do you know another school that has them or did you just think they were needed? I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’d be like an... evenly matched thing.
I'm sorry if I offended you— honestly, but I don't see how it's alienating either way. I've actually never know anyone to do that but I thought people did because, like, Jack Kerouac used to. Or because that's how Oliver Stone wrote Scarface.
It’s needed, right? It’s a good thing to fight for, if no one’s told you that already. Plus, I think it kind of comes in the “mission statement.” [ he put the words in air quotes, if only just because he knew there were people that disagreed. he handed the pen back ] Catholics are supposed to be understanding and charitable and things like that, but it’s definitely a good cause. Do you know what I mean?
Is the summer league a big deal or no? I always just assumed that teams only practiced during summer break. And I bet that he’d let you audition again. It’s senior year for you next year, right?
