





































67

J.B. ADAMS

SOMETHING LOST: IN MEDIAS RES

…and you awake from a dream at 2 a.m. because the cell phone on the bed 
beside you is vibrating. And in the darkness of your bedroom with the shades drawn, 
tiny screen illuminated, the nightmare you were having now bleeds into reality. You 
consider just letting the call collapse, maybe let it vibrate itself empty. But you answer 
it on the third, maybe fourth calling, because the name on the screen matches the 
profile of your sister, April; who should have been home hours ago from a party just 
up the street, hosted by some boy named Matthew, a football player, who you vague-
ly remember sighting in the hollowed out hallways of your high school.

Someone is crying in the background when you say ‘hello?’ and the voice that 
answers is not your sister, but rather a harmonic melancholy of her best friend, Sarah.  

“You need to come,” she says, slowly, forcing you to question momentarily if 
perhaps you are still dreaming. “—something happened.”

When you ask what it is that has happened, she refuses to explain over the 
phone. Instead—she tells you, “It’s probably better if you just come. Please hurry.”

* * *

In a stupor that excels any of the drunks you will find at the party here tonight, 
you make your way down the street. There is no need to drive because the house is so 
close and just around the corner on Jefferson Ave.

The night is a particularly tempered sort of hot, where the sweat from your 
warm body bleeds through your clothes and breaks down beading past your brow. 
The pavement is also warm beneath your bare feet, all below the raw summer moon. 

Rows of houses run the entire stretch of asphalt, resembling the high metal walls 
and watchtowers of concentration camps, where, here, there are none. And that 
asphalt if when followed—still more houses. More blacktop there, for miles and miles 
further.  

A meager pack of coyotes scour garbage cans for scraps of food, things your par-
ents deem inedible, unsavory, and imperfect. And when they see you, they salivate. 
They watch you when you approach, when you linger too long in passing. 

You think, oh, how glazed eyes resemble diamonds when reflected from the moon. 
And this—suburbia—how it reminds you of a jungle in and of itself.

* * *

The house is loud. You hate the songs these kids all want to play; obnoxious, 
some deafening, but most, if not all dumb. Everything is fuck this and bitches that. They 



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force you to shield your ears, to pine for the solace of your warm bed that you know 
will only grow colder the longer you are absent.

Out on the freshly manicured lawn, the drunkards are fighting over who will 
take the newly crowned Miss Nevada home tonight. But amidst the bloody noses, the 
split knuckles, and cracked ribs, she leaves with a boy from the swim team. And the 
drunkards—idiots—they refuse to cease their fighting.

A lone Jack Daniels bottle, drained, floats tranquil in the swimming pool, as you 
witness someone in a Green Day shirt pumping violently at one of the kegs. He insists 
on striving for that liquid gold, and, though long gone, continuously seeks the last few 
drops that may be hiding at the bottom of the well.

Inside, you see those kids in their tightly knitted, fitted, prep school uniforms, 
hovering over a coffee table, while wishing there was still more white left to go around. 
The girl—a voluptuous blonde with perfect eyes and an imperfect soul—you watch 
her lick the table. You watch her lick her fingers, watch her press the nubs of each 
one into the gums of her yellowed teeth. These vultures of the desert, these abridged 
versions of an often forgotten collection of society—how they envy your normalcy, 
how they often dream of stealing your life. They will eye you with reproach when you 
enter, doubtlessly sneering when you leave.

And up the stairs you hear the distant sounds of thunder and profanities; the rock 
‘n’ roll of perverted jazz behind closed doors. Oh, these screams of young lust, you imagine, 
disguised as honest love. Come tomorrow, when the sun arrives, and after all this youth-
ful petty sex, they will regret what was said in secret here tonight. And these young 
lovers, they will deny to their fathers ever committing the acts of things they always 
promised they would never do again.

* * *

Into the only door left ajar you venture, where inside Sarah paces waiting for 
your arrival. When you see her, you notice she is not crying. But then you see your 
sister’s boyfriend Wes, naked from the waist up, nursing his face in his hands. He, you 
see, is the one crying. And on the floor of a bedroom you have never seen before, a 
Mickey Mouse blanket with the silhouette of your sister is still and motionless. And 
when you peel back the blanket, there she is.

Your sister—she is not sleeping.
She did not drink excessively and beyond her means, simply passing out. 
She did not tire from a long and strenuous day, simply falling asleep alone.
Because your sister is so pale and cold and blue, you cannot come to any better 

conclusion than the truth. Your sister, she is not breathing. Because your sister—she 
is dead.

You turn and notice Sarah there beside. You take into account her quiet, 
macabre silence. She extends her hand to place upon your shoulder, to comfort you, 
but pulls away at the last second; and, you think, probably for the best. 



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And Wes, he sees you crouch down there beside your sister, as if praying for 
the return of her immortal soul; and in this motion he no longer sustains the river 
of tears, and commences overtly weeping. “Oh, God—” he cries. “Please let her be 
okay…” But all his prayers and tears cannot bring back your sister from wherever we 
all go from here; just as they certainly will not do a fucking bit of difference for the 
nightmare in which you find yourself now living.

You close her eyes with your fingers. You know if you felt for a pulse you would 
not find one. You know if you pressed your ear against her bosom, like a thousand 
times before, crying harder than a thousand times before, you would not hear the 
sound of a heart beating.

And when you wrap her in that blanket and uplift her tightly into your arms, 
you will remember the sister who once laughed with you, and who truly kept you 
when you cried. This—the same sister, who would rock you to sleep each night while 
your mother slaved away, graveyard shifts at the hospital. And who sang to you with 
perpetual elegance, the songs that eased you into dreams.

“What are we going to do…?” Wes says. Though, you are not listening. You 
are too busy ignoring the stares of the others, those who watch you so intently, and 
who gauge your every breath. Should you survive this, it will not come without 
repercussions. Without whispers. Without stories. It will not come without the 
singular loss of a family member, but rather also your so-called ‘friends.’

Sarah, she says, “Call 911 Wes,” and he nods while recovering his phone. Wes, 
he stops and shakes himself alive. He tries violently to compose himself, before staring 
down at the small illuminated keypad. He stops just short of dialing. “What’s wrong,” 
Sarah asks, confused.

“What was the number again?” 

* * *

Once more on the open lawn, you fall to your knees still cradling her in your 
arms. You can’t help but brush away the loose strands of tawny colored hair that fall 
across her face. There, on that patch of grass, at just past three in the morning, you 
sing the song your sister sang to help you sleep through thunderstorms. You rock her 
back and forth, back and forth—until the paramedics come, and strip her from your 
arms.

* * *

The way your mother finds out—is you show up in her ER at just past four 
in the morning on a Saturday. So tired from that all-nighter and sipping coffee to 
remain awake, she smiles when she sees you. You will remember this moment, years 
from now, as the last time you see your mother happy. Because when she sees that 
gurney there beside you, all adorned in that white sheet, the one in the shape of your 



70

sister, her smile—it will fade.
And your mother, she will not cry at first, but rather, she will leave her coffee 

to fend gravity and, in losing, a great dark lake will form upon the vinyl floor. Only 
then will your mother just begin to cry when she pulls away the curtain to receive her 
daughter—her baby—her one-half of the whole world.

And you will hold your mother when she starts to fall, and when she starts to cry 
because you know that she needs to be held right then. 

And you, you will not say anything.
Because your mother, she will not say anything.

* * *

After they bury your sister in the plot beside your father, after the preacher says 
some words, and your family, your so called friends, all cast up their sympathies—you 
will borrow your mother’s cherry red Mustang with no intention of ever bringing it 
back.  

And you—you will drive. 
You will drive so far, so fast against a setting sun that you will race the stars as 

they gain on you, your back taillights. The headlights, they will fight the yellows and 
the reds, pinks and oranges of a horizon lined with the silhouettes of hills, the moun-
tains just beyond your eager grasp. And in your grasp, the only prize you make from 
this heartache, there, beside you in the passenger seat, Sarah, sits reading aloud from 
your sister’s diary, as you slam your foot down on the gas pedal. And from her lips 
come all the childhood crushes. Your sister’s favorite books, movies, and songs they 
come crashing from Sarah’s ruby red lips. Those ruby red lips, she smiles at you with 
as she sings and cries aloud a passage about you. All the red lights and stop signs dis-
appear behind you, deemed unimportant now, then, ever again, as Sarah says, your 
sister she believes you brave. And your sister, she believes that you are smart. Your 
sister says that you are some kind of infinite that will leave this God-forsaken town in 
either a mustang or a hearse. And Sarah, she is smiling. And, like you, longing, when 
she sings all of your sister’s thoughts aloud. 

And up ahead in the distance, shadowy earth you seldom thought existed, let 
alone ever considered conquering, is a sign that reads, “Reality begins… NOW,” 
marks the furthest you have ever traveled west of home.

And your sister always thought you handsome, always thought you brilliant, and 
always thought you kind. Your sister, she was proud to know you in the time that she 
was alive.

The home in which you leave falls somewhere just behind as you.


