Short story
Between wind and reality
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The whistling wind has been Frank's enemy and his migraine's ally. He was born and raised by the ocean, where healing air often brought wheezing wind to his house. His mother said it made that noise because it was grinding up all the ancient ocean salt. His father joked about the sailors’ souls who prowled the houses, peering into chimneys and every crack in the shutters, seeking rest. Despite eighteen seasoned years of living by the ocean, Frank always noticed the wind.
At nineteen, Frank chose a college specifically inland, away from rivers, lakes, and ponds—the elements of water and air were one for him. His first year of college was spent waking up and staring at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the dorm’s walls. In addition to the voices of neighbors and the tramp of feet, he sometimes heard the wind, but it was humble and tame. Migraines gave way to headaches from studying and wild parties. Frank even invited his parents to come visit him so as not to meet his wheezing enemy, but his parents had taken root by the ocean a long time ago.
At nineteen, Frank chose a college specifically inland, away from rivers, lakes, and ponds—the elements of water and air were one for him. His first year of college was spent waking up and staring at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the dorm’s walls. In addition to the voices of neighbors and the tramp of feet, he sometimes heard the wind, but it was humble and tame. Migraines gave way to headaches from studying and wild parties. Frank even invited his parents to come visit him so as not to meet his wheezing enemy, but his parents had taken root by the ocean a long time ago.
“Frank, have you seen the forecast?” his roommate asks, picking at the notebook’s spirals with a pencil. They are sitting in the common room in the shabby maroon armchairs. The hum of the television is a background and a companion.
"Raining again?" Frank drawls. He’s looking at the ceiling and drawing formulas on it.
“Here, but there. You’re from there, right? They say a storm’s brewing.”
Frank sits up and stares at the screen, where yellowing fields, roads cutting through them, and his parents’ house are already flashing past him. He recognized the house by its red roof, although it’s still a dot on the screen, a dot that’s about to be swallowed by its neighbor, the rising ocean. Frank pulls his phone out and frantically dials the dear number.
"Raining again?" Frank drawls. He’s looking at the ceiling and drawing formulas on it.
“Here, but there. You’re from there, right? They say a storm’s brewing.”
Frank sits up and stares at the screen, where yellowing fields, roads cutting through them, and his parents’ house are already flashing past him. He recognized the house by its red roof, although it’s still a dot on the screen, a dot that’s about to be swallowed by its neighbor, the rising ocean. Frank pulls his phone out and frantically dials the dear number.
“Come on. Pick up, damn it!”
His roommate watches him with his mouth slightly open. His lower lip moves up and down. Occasionally a whistle comes out of his mouth.
"Hey, are you alright?" Frank asks, listening to the beeps. The roommate jerks forward, foaming saliva coming out.
And then wheezing, whistling, creaking sounds come from the phone, all united into a thin, cutting audio wave. One of its splashes lets out, “Frank.”
“Dad? Is that you? You need to get out of there! Dad?”
A swelling wave, a splash, and a wave coming at him. Unceasing, hissing only his name. “Frank.”
Frank's eyes widen. The screen in front of him is filled with ocean images, and the phone is his speaker. He hears nothing but a mind-shattering whistle. Frank understands.
He wants me to come back.
His roommate watches him with his mouth slightly open. His lower lip moves up and down. Occasionally a whistle comes out of his mouth.
"Hey, are you alright?" Frank asks, listening to the beeps. The roommate jerks forward, foaming saliva coming out.
And then wheezing, whistling, creaking sounds come from the phone, all united into a thin, cutting audio wave. One of its splashes lets out, “Frank.”
“Dad? Is that you? You need to get out of there! Dad?”
A swelling wave, a splash, and a wave coming at him. Unceasing, hissing only his name. “Frank.”
Frank's eyes widen. The screen in front of him is filled with ocean images, and the phone is his speaker. He hears nothing but a mind-shattering whistle. Frank understands.
He wants me to come back.
He kneels down, holding the phone to his ear. He wants to take me; he wants to penetrate me. He squeezes the phone, despite the terrible whistle that’s burrowing into his brain, every convolution, cell, membrane. Frank holds the phone, allowing himself to be tested. He closes his eyes, falling into the pose of a fervent prayer.
He’s light as a feather, agile as an albatross. He inhales deeply and tastes the ocean itself. He inhales more and screams silently as a migraine runs through him. The wind controls him; the wind has penetrated him. Frank is carried toward the rocks. He dodges them and is thrown out right next to the house with the red roof.
In the window, his father and mother are talking while watching television. Frank touches the familiar shutters, and his mother suddenly turns and looks him straight in the eye through the steamy glass.
“Mom,” Frank says. “Mom, it’s me.”
His mother frowns, stands up, and closes the thin curtains, avoiding looking out the window. Frank sees the room through a whitish veil.
“What’s wrong?” Frank hears his father’s loud voice.
“This wind brought Frank’s name; it’s like he’s in the wind itself.”
“It can’t be. You said that this wind only grinds the salt.”
“And you said it’s souls.”
“He's fine.”
His mother freezes, bites her lower lip, and cries bitterly.
“Silly you, what’s wrong?” The father puts his arm around her shoulders.
Frank pounds on the window with his palms, his fists. His mother looks at him through the curtains, then covers her eyes and her ears with her hands. Her shoulders are trembling; she shakes her head. His father looks up; the roof’s roaring, as if its scalp’s being ripped off. His father opens his mouth and whispers,
“Frank, come back.”
He’s light as a feather, agile as an albatross. He inhales deeply and tastes the ocean itself. He inhales more and screams silently as a migraine runs through him. The wind controls him; the wind has penetrated him. Frank is carried toward the rocks. He dodges them and is thrown out right next to the house with the red roof.
In the window, his father and mother are talking while watching television. Frank touches the familiar shutters, and his mother suddenly turns and looks him straight in the eye through the steamy glass.
“Mom,” Frank says. “Mom, it’s me.”
His mother frowns, stands up, and closes the thin curtains, avoiding looking out the window. Frank sees the room through a whitish veil.
“What’s wrong?” Frank hears his father’s loud voice.
“This wind brought Frank’s name; it’s like he’s in the wind itself.”
“It can’t be. You said that this wind only grinds the salt.”
“And you said it’s souls.”
“He's fine.”
His mother freezes, bites her lower lip, and cries bitterly.
“Silly you, what’s wrong?” The father puts his arm around her shoulders.
Frank pounds on the window with his palms, his fists. His mother looks at him through the curtains, then covers her eyes and her ears with her hands. Her shoulders are trembling; she shakes her head. His father looks up; the roof’s roaring, as if its scalp’s being ripped off. His father opens his mouth and whispers,
“Frank, come back.”
Frank presses his palms against the window, lets out a scream, and comes to his senses on the bulging floorboards. His fingers ache from the phone’s edges. The screen’s dark. The nurse's pink-cheeked face looms over him.
“What, what happened?” Frank babbles.
“I don’t know,” his roommate says. “We were sitting and watching the news, then suddenly you fell to the floor. You were in convulsions, coughing and wheezing.”
“We need to x-ray you to rule out pneumonia,” the nurse says. “Are you asthmatic?”
“No, I… I just wanted to scream.” Frank says under his breath. His lungs ache, and his throat is like it’s filled with salt.
Walking out of the hospital with clear lungs and no sign of pneumonia, Frank listens to the wind all the way back. It speaks another language, caressing his skin like cold silk. Frank pulls out his phone and finds his father's number. The last call was three hours ago.
“Dad, I’ll be there,” he says as the greeting. “Is Mom okay?”
“What are you talking about? She’s here. Here you go.”
Frank hears his mother's voice, cheerful and carefree. He exhales into the phone; it turns into a wheeze.
“I’ll come back. Tell him that.”
“What, what happened?” Frank babbles.
“I don’t know,” his roommate says. “We were sitting and watching the news, then suddenly you fell to the floor. You were in convulsions, coughing and wheezing.”
“We need to x-ray you to rule out pneumonia,” the nurse says. “Are you asthmatic?”
“No, I… I just wanted to scream.” Frank says under his breath. His lungs ache, and his throat is like it’s filled with salt.
Walking out of the hospital with clear lungs and no sign of pneumonia, Frank listens to the wind all the way back. It speaks another language, caressing his skin like cold silk. Frank pulls out his phone and finds his father's number. The last call was three hours ago.
“Dad, I’ll be there,” he says as the greeting. “Is Mom okay?”
“What are you talking about? She’s here. Here you go.”
Frank hears his mother's voice, cheerful and carefree. He exhales into the phone; it turns into a wheeze.
“I’ll come back. Tell him that.”
