a paranoid at school [poem]

crack
as night settles in and evening goes to sleep.

the church bells ring nine times. the phone rings twenty times. neither of the calls are answered. only
the birds cackle in the background.

the investigator walks into the house. four family members were reported by the next-door neighbors
but only three bodies are found.
no one is left to tell any clues. no one knows a thing

there is practically no trace of the fourth except for:
a superficially clean room with dust on the mirror and cluttered drawers under the desk
a collection of well-loved items in tubs both plastic and cloth-covered
at least a dozen notebooks scattered along the shelves
a bed uncovered by all but one sheet, not even a pillow
and a near-empty clear plastic stand filled with barely enough clothes for one drawer

it seems they left in a hurry. maybe they are the culprit
they are trying to hide

but — who are they? who
collectively, as a whole

thick sheet of dust on the mirror
it hasn’t been touched in a while
it used to be uniformly clean, says the even-toned frame and smooth glass. but maybe, sometimes they couldn’t stand to look in their reflection,
the unwiped surfaces add with a smile
and everyone knows that is right

the first drawer under the desk is mostly full of electronics and mechanical devices wrapped in tangled cables, several watches tick away
a few dirty and scratched and designed like they were made for a young child to wear

some near pristine, made for those older

the second drawer opens to a few markers, stickers, and notepads. it is mostly empty

the third drawer has a few small notebooks and more cables
nothing is labeled.
this system mostly runs on memory, says the haphazard style of organization.

the fourth drawer is the messiest, with random objects
free pens from miscellaneous sources, usually companies or airlines
little plastic containers that used to hold something small and round
they were a collector.
maybe these objects meant something
or they just have a fear, the list of hundreds of items says from the corner of the desk. they are afraid of forgetting. they collect to remember
forever.

the investigator was told that the owner of this room was a teenager, an older child and it makes sense. the room tells them so
but something is off.

heavy tubs pry open easily. most don’t even have lids they were first lifted from the high shelf in the closet, in which hangs only a few jackets and sweaters. some of them are filled with yarn

and plastic bags of needles and hooks
unpainted wooden doll figures
a microphone and three plastic recorders (the instrument) two flutes, one cheap and the other more expensive
an old digital tablet — an ipad, actually
and a lot more. mostly trinkets and such
like some plastic leprechaun coins from years ago
or a cheap marble without clear origin

the notebooks are everywhere. at least two on the desk
a dozen or few on the shelves

some in the drawers.
they fly open to drawings and writing about everything.
some of it is in three layers — black ink, blue ink, red pencil — or more
the glyphs on the page don’t make any sense
they don’t match any documented alphabet on earth
who knows what it could mean?
is this creativity or delusion? asks the scientifically written article on what appears to be nonsense under closer inspection.
are you sure there is only one missing child? asks the journal entries written in completely different styles, down to the handwriting and vocabulary choice.
what happened? asks the notebooks’ contents

the uncovered bed looks like a casket with the lid ripped off.
it is too barren to be lived-in
but it can’t be anything other than that.
it probably hasn’t been touched for a month, suggests the near-creaseless sheets. the investigator ignores that

dutifully.

they instead walk to the last clue.
why are there so little clothes in the dresser? chirps the empty drawers as the investigator nears the scene.
it’s true — there are barely enough clothes
to dress in for a week.
the sweatshirts that remain only half-folded say they left in a hurry, perhaps in the dark.
the pair of old glasses in the glasses case
on the desk
explain everything.

the investigator makes a call. spills their findings.

last is calling the missing fourth member’s phone number acquired from the family next door
whose friend’s friend’s friend’s friend
recited a number and hoped it was correct.

ring
as night settles in and evening goes to sleep.

no one told anyone that the missing member
was in a different timezone. already
how so fast? if they fired the bullets —
there are no questions to be asked now
because the phone is ringing and no one is answering because the phone rings through the night

and no one answers.

twelve hours later, they try again.
the call rings, rings, rings
and someone walks in from outside the hall. a roommate, perhaps?
that someone doesn’t answer
because their mother taught them
it’s not polite to answer other people’s phone calls.

instead they just leave the room. they don’t notice: twisted hair ties on a little shelf
acting as a nightstand
two suitcases lined up under the closet space

a single sheet of neatly ripped lined paper,
completely filled with writing, mostly reminders
slightly dented water bottle
that used to be pristine and clean until the day before
a half-finished acrylic painting of an unfamiliar suburban view a book in the desk that is heavy and annotated carefully,

and it’s about psychological horror.
the little faces and hearts drawn everywhere go unnoticed, or something.
or something

a twisted hair tie complains about being lost,
but then vividly details the time spent in the lonely dark. the paper with the lists on it
worries for the writer’s fear

fear of forgetting. forgetting what
forgetting everything.
lack of sleep makes them drop things a lot, the water bottle remarks in passing as if it is not riddled in tiny dents and scratches
from being dropped.
it tries its best not to be bitter
because it would rather be happy instead.

such a perfectionist, says the unfinished painting that is half-pained. the book agrees, because
it is not yet written on in anything
but symbols of impermanence.

even though it wants to be changed
and the missing member — the painter, the writer, the worrier — is sentimental, adds the faces and hearts, as if that
could change anything.

maybe it will

but in the end, the echoes of bullets chase them
but in the true end, the bullets never existed
because they are a worrier, says
the headphones charging in the corner. the headphones
always remain charging because

the worrier worries, and knows that
the prepared man is a fool every night but one.

the phone never rang.
the investigator does not exist. the bullets never fired
because the worrier worries.

and that worries the paper of reminders and lists.
it’s worrying