Hearsay by John Phillips

No one had ever heard him speak, so when Hayden Boyd stepped into the tire pit at Ridgemont Middle School and invoked Suicide #5, the boys broke into nervous laughter, shaken by the unexpected depth of his voice and the gravity of what he said.

Hayden was a shadow at Ridgemont, often seen but rarely considered. No one knew where the quiet boy with piercing blue eyes and hair blacker than a witch’s hat lived, nor had anyone ever seen his parents. On a few occasions, his classmates had discovered him in the woods beside the highway, sculpting animal effigies from twigs and ivy vines. When they did speak of him, it was always to perpetuate rumors: Hayden was in a cult; Hayden lived in a hearse; Hayden killed a kid in Kansas. That Hayden of all people invoked one of The Five Suicides lent credence to the hearsay and mystery.

The Five Suicides provided a path to reverence at Ridgemont. These were the most outrageous dares that the cool kids could dream up during recess. If you tried one and succeeded, you became a god. But nobody had the guts. Their kingdom had been godless for two years since Carmen Wright broke both legs attempting Suicide #3—jumping across the roof gap between the gymnasium and the cafeteria. The boys had given Carmen a standing ovation when he wheeled his way into the classroom months later, but he could no longer join them in the tire pit or play manhunt after school and was quickly forgotten.

Hayden had invoked the ballsiest of The Five Suicides—staring at the sun for sixty seconds. It was nothing less than a confrontation with the source of life itself. He wore sunglasses to school for two weeks before he was ready, igniting yet another string of rumors. Some speculated that he had built up an immunity to sunlight by staring at 100-watt bulbs for hours at a time. Others claimed he had removed his eyes all together, replacing them with prosthetics made of glass. To this day, no one knows for sure.

Accounts of what came to pass vary, but the most consistent is this: On a crisp Friday afternoon in October, a week before Halloween, Hayden turned his face to the sun and stared. Around him, spectators counted in unison, working from sixty to zero. At forty, Hayden’s bright blue irises turned gray. By thirty, his retinas were pin pricks. Around twenty, blood began dripping from his eye sockets, tracing the arc of his cheeks. At ten, Hayden’s hair solidified, taking on a yellow sheen, which then seeped down to his ears and spread across his neck and shoulder like spilled paint. Around five, his body began to harden, and by zero, Hayden had turned to solid gold.

John Phillips is a creative content writer and former journalist from New York. He currently lives in Asia.