But it felt oddly wrong to leave him while he was so upset. So I sat down and fiddled with the small sculptures.
The minutes ticked by and I chanced a look at Flynn. He seemed composed now if not a bit embarrassed. His face was flushed red and he was chewing on his bottom lip.
“It was the fire. The fire killed him. He never got out,” he called out, startling me.
“What?” I asked, not sure I had heard him correctly.
“The fire at my house. He died in it. He used to sleep in the basement and Mom couldn’t get to him.”
Air left my lungs and my head began to buzz.
Flynn slowly came back to my side of the room. With shaking hands, he bent down and started cleaning up the shattered remains of the clay dog.
I felt sick. I felt horrified. I wanted to run screaming from the awful truth I had just been given. I hastily tried to shove the guilt into a more manageable space inside of me before I choked on it. But it was too late.
Marty, the beautiful Border Collie was dead. The dog I had cuddled and kissed and who Flynn had loved was gone.
Because of me.
I felt it deep in my soul. The unjust futility of his lost life. The tragedy of it threatened to undo me.
I started the brutal and violent process of smothering the shame in the pit of my stomach. Shove, push, cut it up into tiny compact pieces so that it was easier to get rid of.
Once I had packed it away I was finally able to face him again and express the words that were expected in this kind of situation.
“I’m so sorry, Flynn” I began but he interrupted me.
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill him. The fire killed him. He couldn’t get out.”
The door to my emotions flew wide open again and I was left speechless.
What?
My throat closed up and my mouth went dry.
Flynn didn’t know.
Somehow he had been shielded from the reality of that horrific night.
I had lived the last six years thinking all my cards had been on the table. That Flynn knew what had happened.
But for some reason he hadn’t been given that particular painful piece of knowledge. And I was jealous of his blissful ignorance. He didn’t have to carry around the knowledge of what I had done to him. He was oblivious and a hateful part of me despised him for it.
My head hurt. My chest felt too tight.
I needed to leave.
Without another word, I grabbed my bag and left the art studio. Flynn didn’t call after me. He didn’t follow me. I didn’t expect him to.
But some tiny, annoying part of me that hadn’t been beaten down by emotional numbness was sad that he didn’t.
-Ellie-
Spending time with Flynn had been a mistake. And it wasn’t one I wanted repeated.
Our brief encounter had been as explosive as a land mine. It had blown open doors that I had kept resolutely shut for a very long time. But in the end it had also fortified me in the way only self-destruction can.
Days faded into one another and I didn’t see him. My feet were itching to walk across campus once or twice, heading in the direction where I knew I’d find him, but my rational mind reigned supreme over traitorous desires.
