My phone buzzes, and I slide it from my pocket. A text from my housemate, War. He’s probably wondering where the fuck I am. When he dropped me off at the pub, I’d told him I’d likely text for a ride around one or two in the morning.
Last night, I only intended to go to the poker game for a couple of hours. But being in the rhythm of drinking and playing cards helped me avoid reliving the details of the day Jude died. I needed the distraction, and time got away from me.
I should respond. Before I answer a friend’s text, though, I need to give my young brother his due.
Opening my camera roll, I find a picture of Jude. In this one, he’s eleven. The smile he wears is a lie. The picture was taken on his birthday, just fourteen days before he killed himself.
The back of my throat burns, and I swallow against it, ramming down the pain. He held on as long as he could. That’s what he wrote.
Taking a wooden stick from the sand next to the candles, I lower the tip into the flame to light the stick. After a moment, I use it to light another candle right next to the first. A pair is always better, so one doesn’t have to burn alone.
Closing my eyes, I recite a prayer. I direct it to Mary. She understands how loss can rip a person apart.
After raking open the old wounds, I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to face the day. I blame a lot of people for what happened to Jude. Including myself.
All that’s left to do now is make amends. With a blood offering.
Finally opening my eyes, I shove a twenty-dollar bill into the donation slot.
I haven’t found him yet, Jude, but I will. It won’t be long now.
The last is wishful thinking on my part, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to tell Jude that.
If I had to guess, I’d imagine waiting is easier on Jude than on me. After all, he’s got nothing but time. Meanwhile, I’m in a self-made purgatory, hunting shadows in a country that’s not my own.
Most days, all I want in the world is to go back to the island. To fish and surf and celebrate holidays in our family home. Maybe to row for Ireland in the Olympics. Before I left, I was invited to training camp.
First, though, I have to keep my oath. I can’t go back yet, no. I promised the only thing that would stop me from avenging my brother is my own death. So far, God hasn’t struck me down or let my enemies get a clear shot at me. It’s the one advantage of God’s neglect, I suppose.
Trying to shake off the blackness that threatens to choke me, I hustle out of St. Benedict’s. The cold air is bracing, which makes it somehow easier to breathe.
On the church steps, I call War McCann. Half Russian and half Irish, he’s about as cheerful as a Tolstoy-Frank McCourt mashup would be. His unpleasant disposition is one of the things I like about him.
War answers, sounding gruff as usual. “Where are you?”
“Mission and Main. Walking home.”
“I’ll roll your way and pick you up.”
He’s been out all night, too? Or is he coming out to get me? Either way, doesn’t matter. I’m tired and I’ll take the ride.
“Yeah, grand,” I say.
My finger slides over the screen to end the call. Now that I’ve made it through the night and lit the candles, I’m ready to give up the cold in favor of a warm bed. I’m gonna try to sleep late. The more of the day I can kill with unconsciousness the better.
As the sun rises, salmon color paints the horizon. Too pretty and too pink. Like the girl with cranberry-colored hair and incredible breasts. She’s worth a dark thought or two. The v of her tight sweater issued an invitation I hated to pass up.But since I’ve banned myself from getting laid on the anniversary of Jude’s death, I ignored the temptation.
The next time we cross paths, though, she won’t get away so easily. Fucking pretty girls is a great way to clear my head. And that one managed to make me laugh and give me a taste of home. No random girl’s done that before.
Moving my neck to stretch my sore muscles, I consider the way Cranberry Sauce—Sawyer—looked at me. Dilated pupils and parted lips. The kind of look that implies a girl will give over control. Better and fucking better, I thought at the time.
Then again, she refused to keep the poker chip when I urged her to. Was that self preservation or rebellion? Maybe both. If she’s rebellious, it’ll take a lot more work to get what I want. Which is not a good thing.
I’m too busy to chase. Fun as it might be.
I’ve got a job, a vendetta, and a training schedule. My best course of action is the one I’ve been using. Engage in casual one night stands to hold me over between sex dungeon visits.
3
