Invisible Strings - A Short Story

Photo by Tembela Bohle from Pexels

When William and Benjamin met, it was the first week of first grade at Play Elementary School, the perfect picture of a cliché American suburban school.

Already worried about this new chapter in his life, seven-year-old William cautiously roamed around the blindingly bright and colorful cafeteria. He scanned the room, gripping his tray, searching for an empty table, but there were none. He examined the only tables left with just one kid. Hungry, he opted for the table with a small, white boy. After a deep breath, William slid into the chair opposite and, with his head down, unpacked his lunch.

Before William could take out his spoon, the boy, who had been too busy stuffing his face into his sandwich, finally noticed William. His face dirty with jelly and bread crumbs, he exclaimed, “Hi! I’m Benjamin, or Ben. I really like your shirt!”

Unsure of himself, William muttered, “I’m William, but some people call me Will.”

Ben looked at him and inquisitively tapped his large chipmunk cheeks, causing William to shift in his seat as he worried he’d said the wrong thing. 

“Most people with the name William,” Ben began as he carefully chose his words, “happen to be very scared people.” Both relief and offense flowed through Will as he tugged at the strings in his Liverpool FC hoodie. Maybe, he thought, looking behind him, I should have sat at the other table. The silence continued for a couple of minutes as both boys picked at their food. Feeling terrible about his comments but too prideful to say sorry, Ben muttered, “Well, that’s what my Uncle Ben says, but I’m not sure if I believe it.”

“Your uncle’s name is Ben, too?”

“Yup,” Ben beamed, “all my uncles are called Benjamin! It’s a tradition!” Which, for the record, was not completely true.  

“How do you know which uncle is who?”

“Well…” Ben said as he counted off his small fingers, “Uncle Benjamin is the tall one, Uncle Benny is funny, Uncle Ben is rich, and Uncle Benjo is the youngest!”

A smile tugged at Will’s face as he admitted, “I heard people with the name Ben are bad at spelling!”

Any tension was released as both boys burst out into laughter, somehow making the most sound in that noisy elementary school cafeteria.

William's eyes landed on his black Court Visions taking steps down the street. Thinking of it now, he initially wanted white Air Jordan 1s, but being an eighteen-year-old senior, he couldn’t afford them. Instead, he settled on a cheaper option: Court Visions. During a trip to a local mall’s shoe store, he felt his whole body cringe while trying on the white sneakers. Strings of worry and catastrophe wrapped tightly around his small frame. No, he couldn’t get those; they would get dirty too easily. In the end, he decided to get the all-black version.

---

Covered in the shadows of tall gray buildings in the late afternoon, William played the moment over in his head. Dark grime covered the concrete, littered with trash and the occasional piece of chewed gum. Glancing up at the sky, he could only see slivers of blue in a sea of thin gray clouds. In a way, the mood of the city reflected his own.

William shivered in his large coat as a gust of wind blew through the streets. Looking ahead, a couple of other dark figures shuffled by. The corner of the street was in sight, not far away.

William considered what he and Ben had said that day they met. To an extent, they both turned out to be right. Ben, who was later diagnosed with dyslexia, was horrible at spelling. However, he never let it hinder his mission of becoming a writer. He even planned to study writing in college. Similarly, as Ben had guessed, William was always scared. What he feared was vast but easy to generalize: disaster, pain, and losing things he loved. What Ben forgot to mention then was that it all made William sad.

He was on his way to watch a game at Ben’s with a few other friends. It was late September, with most trees nearly naked, and the beginning of the Champions League season. William and Ben both supported Liverpool FC. William convinced Ben to support his team a couple of days after they first met. The night before, seven-year-old William, under his thin blankets, curled up and held himself, worrying that if Ben didn’t love Liverpool too, their friendship would ultimately fail. He didn’t sleep that night. Looking back, they had a good enough connection to survive, even if Ben became a Manchester United fan. Although they might not have been as close without that extra bond.

“Sport,” Ben wrote in their school newspaper, “connects people on a different level. When can a group of people collectively cry for something that, in the grand scheme of things, is pointless, but to everyone there, it means everything? When can a person worry for days on end about an event that is, in the end, just a group of people kicking around a ball? In essence, sports allow humans to feel joy or sorrow, and not feel it alone.”

William always thought Ben had a way with words, especially for a person who was bad at spelling.

It was once again William’s job to buy the snacks for the game. He worried he might forget again. In an attempt to be a more reliable friend, he made sure that the store was on the way to Ben’s apartment. Raising his eyes from his shoes, William saw that he was finally at the corner of the street, only a couple of streets down from the store, and Ben. As he and other busy strangers collected on the edge of the street, William, anticipating uncomfort, sucked in a deep breath, curled his fists into his baggy jean pockets. The sun shone down through layers of clouds onto him as he stepped into the empty space between buildings.

The moment of bliss the sun’s touch provided abruptly ended, as William’s eyes landed on the red lights in front of him. Standing there, he bit his lip as his mind insisted on continuously reminding him that he only had thirty minutes before the games started. Unconsciously, William's left foot began to tap the ground. William hated being late, and while he gave others the benefit of the doubt, he couldn’t do the same for himself.

William closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to eradicate all those thoughts. His slightly long hair swung from side to side, occasionally whipping him in the face. After opening his eyes, William looked around him and at the cars passing by. He found himself judging these absolute strangers, rating their car and color choices. The worst car he saw was a small 2000s sea-green Honda whose lights didn’t work. This car also made him feel the worst. What if someone died because of it? The worry made him grind his teeth together as the bottom of his belly started to cramp. Instinctively, his right hand pulled out of his pocket and began to stroke his hair.

For the hundredth time, William once again checked the light, which refused to change. His legs ached from standing there so long. Out of discomfort, William started to shuffle around the small space he’d acquired. Shuffling slightly to the left, his head tilted with his body and a strange thing caught his eye. He froze, his vision somewhat impaired by the crowd surrounding him. William peeked through to see an empty, rigidly half-opened can of black beans. It sat on the street next to him, right in front of the first car waiting at the white line. The can seemed uncomfortable with its existence, as its sharp edges clashed against the surrounding concrete.

All of William’s muscles tensed, as he found himself staring straight into the face of danger, or, as others saw it, a can. Trying to appear calm, he looked at those around him, mostly finding tired, unaffected, and unemotional faces. Hopelessness started to consume him as he realized he was the only one who noticed the catastrophic can, or he was the only one that cared. He was alone, as per usual.

His skin turned pale as his body recognized what was about to happen. Feeling dizzy, he clumsily pushed out of the crowd so he could get a clear view. William's head felt heavy, as his thoughts sped past faster than the car next to him. Looking directly at the can, everything around him disappeared into a loud darkness. His ribs started to shrink, the bones encaging his lungs and heart, which pushed blood through his tight veins and against his tensed muscles.

Engulfed by anxiety, he gave in. Oxygen struggled to make its way to his lungs. What if someone tripped on it, and the lights turned green? Images of the person’s broken body spewed in front of him. Blood and guts. A car’s wheel would catch the can, tearing the tire apart as the vehicle flung into the intersection causing a devastating collision. All those lives are gone or ruined, because of William’s futility. Families mourning until their lives eventually end. Numerous unpaid medical bills thrown on old wooden tables. A stray piece of car would hit him in the head. Bystanders suffering brutal injuries and death. The rammed cars would burst into flames and explode. The fire would reach the tall buildings and burn them down too.

Strings rolled down from the suddenly dark sky, each one connected to all the things around him. The thin strings quivered under the pressure, ready to break. Quiet whispers rotated around him, creating an earsplitting symphony. The ground underneath William shattered and fell into the dark abyss of space. The cars, people, and buildings barely floated, thanks to the trembling strings. It was all so delicate. Tears pooled underneath his eyes as he fell to his knees with his arms wrapped around himself. Eyes still stuck to the can, William was stunned, like a baby who had just been hit.

The curtain fell, and the darkness disappeared, but the strings did not. Even though it was all in William’s head, when he blinked his eyes open, the brightness surprised him. He found himself peering down at the ground, examining all the little pieces of sand that made concrete. A long, sad sound bellowed out of William’s mouth as he tried to collect himself. The fear swam around him. If anything was clear to him, it was that he needed to get that can and fix everything.

Suddenly, the noises of cars driving across the street rang in his ears. William shot up from the ground and ran to the edge of the concrete. He teetered on the edge as his lungs began to restrict as though he was about to be sick. Innocent cars sped across the street, completely oblivious to the danger. William lost sight of the can, which lay in the middle of the road, only getting glances of it jumping up and down between cars.

“Stop!” he screamed, but no one heard him. Every flashy car that passed punched him in the chest with a new wave of anxiety. Air whipped into his face as he bent over, holding himself, desperate to keep himself together. 

After a minute or less, the cars slowed and then stopped. For William, it felt like the green was on for hours, as he eventually found himself sitting on the ground holding his head. The silence, which was not complete, relieved him. He let go of his head, tipping it to face the sky. A small breeze blew into him, exposing his wet face. Unaware he had been crying so much, his hand touched the bottom of his face. It was slippery. Now wet, his hand fell to his chest as it allowed air to enter. William scanned the still street in front of him. Shaking his head, both in relief and disgust at himself, he saw the can, now lying on its side, mostly unaffected by the cars. His body started to calm down; however, instead of feeling lighter, he was heavy with exhaustion.

His whole being felt numb, unresponsive to the outside world. William wearily dragged himself up from the rough concrete and stumbled towards the can. He could barely make out the words his brain fed him. His eyes were swollen, but that did not stop him from rubbing them. Looking at the cars next to him, he could see all their faces peering at him in confusion, their heads tilted with concern. He blushed out of embarrassment, worried they might consider him crazy. Once the can was at his feet, he could see the branding. On the wrapper was an old white man smiling with a bubble above him saying, “The best beans the world has seen!”

Grabbing it, William was careful not to cut himself on its edges. A part of him wanted to throw it back down out of anger and because the slime was disgusting. Trying to ignore the texture of it, he dropped his hand to his side and walked back to the sidewalk. Honestly, it reminded him of the can his mom used for chilli last week. Making it back, he panted, realizing he was out of energy.

His brain was empty as he walked to Ben’s, too numb to function. It was no relief though, as he was still full of emotion. Standing at the door of Ben’s house, he was relieved to finally be able to press the doorbell. It was only seconds before Ben burst the door open in excitement.

However, once Ben got a decent look at William, his excitement transformed into concern.

“William? Are you ok? You look terrible. What happened?” he questioned him, scratching his head.

“Umm,” William leaned on the door frame, staring at the floor and avoiding eye contact,

“Nothing big… we can talk about it later.”

Looking at William, Ben saw his old friend hunched over with heavy shoulders. His baggy jacket hung on his tall and thin frame. Even with his face towards the ground and his messy hair, he could see William’s wet face catching reflections of light around them. William sniffed, causing Ben to grin, as it reminded him of the noise a puppy would make. However, he quickly stopped, noticing his friend's expression. Ben ground his teeth, hesitant to accept that as an adequate answer.

Having known William for so long, Ben could easily sense when something was off with him. This was one of those times. It was no secret between them that William struggled, but they never spoke about it. Ben could remember so many times he had found William like this. He was familiar with the sight of his panic attacks. Images of a frantic young William hunched over crying, flashed through his head as Ben stood there powerless, unable to help him.

Looking at William now, years later, made his heart heavy. Shaking his head, refusing this to be the end of the conversation, he continued his investigation.

“Where are the snacks?” In truth, Ben didn’t care about the snacks, considering his parents bought some bulk from Costco. He had more than enough for a couple more games.

William lifted his head, looked straight at Ben, squinted his eyes, and apologized. “I completely forgot. Something got in the way. I am so sorry, man.”

Ben sighed. He lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. William was needlessly difficult, evading any question asked. But, Ben guessed, that’s true for anyone? Noises of his own mother saying the same thing echoed in his head. Before he could prod William with more questions, noises coming out of the house became louder. Dominick, a friend of theirs, shouted, “Yo! Boys, the game’s starting!”

“Can I come in?” William shook his clasped hands, begging for a positive answer. 

Hearing the noises of fans’ chanting and a commentator’s British voice, Ben wanted to be in there too. So, Ben reluctantly let William in. Halfway through the door, he placed his arm around

William’s shoulders. Ben leaned and whispered, “We will talk about this later.” 

William gave an unenthusiastic nod, feeling threatened, and manoeuvred his way out of Ben’s hold. He rushed to the TV. Ben exhaled and followed in his path. William’s hands shifted side to side as he walked, finally allowing Ben to catch a glance of the can in his hands. He stopped, confusion spread across Ben’s face. He stood there and watched William continue down the hallway, a bad feeling building in the pit of his stomach. Loud cheers from the TV filled Ben’s ears as he watched his friend walk away, wondering why William was tightly holding an empty and hazardous old can of beans.

Just as quickly as Ben noticed the can, it had quickly disappeared from his view, along with

William, as they turned away. Ben was frozen at the door with his head in his hands rubbing his face.

You’ll Never Walk Alone rang from the TV, with every fan in that stadium, nearly halfway around the world from him, on their feet, singing along. When you walk through a storm. His chest felt tight with concern and worry.  Every bone in his body told him that William hadn’t intended to bring that can for completely rational reasons. Who would? Don’t be afraid of the dark.

Ben dropped his hands and shook his head, leaning on the cold door frame, as he whispered to himself, “This is not okay, he is not okay.” For some reason, saying things out loud always helped him process what he was feeling. Walk on through the wind. 

Hunched over, he found himself repeating the sentence over and over, like a mantra, as tears burned the edges of his brown eyes. Maybe it was years of helplessness boiling over inside him or the distance building between them over William’s disregard for his well-being. Walk on, Walk on. With his eyes shut, the tears fell quickly, and Ben rubbed them away. The pressure in his chest started to lift, little by little. Ben didn’t know what he could do anymore or if he could do anything. With hope in your heart. As he began taking controlled breaths, Ben looked around and gladly didn't see anyone looking at him.

Stepping to the window on his right, he took a hard look at his face. His long curly hair covered his forehead but fell over his pale skin with splotches of pink around his eyes. It wasn’t terribly noticeable, which calmed Ben. And you’ll never walk alone. His eyes locked with his reflection’s eyes. He could remember his teacher telling him that you could see everything in a person's eyes. Ben saw many things in his eyes: worry, sadness, care, excitement, apprehension, but more importantly, he saw a glimmer of hope. He stepped back, hand now unclenched, and walked through the door and into the hallway. There was still anxiety turning through his stomach, but he tried to tell himself that everything would be okay. For now is not forever, and forever will not be like now. You’ll never walk alone.