1
KAI
Then
The rain sizzles on the roof of the wrecked car. It’s a dark fall night on the deserted trail road, only fire from the burning Jeep lighting the inky sky.
Fire that grows with every step I take toward the edge of the steep hillside.
Every breath as heat burns my face, my shoulder, and the tips of my fingers as I stretch to reach the hand flailing from the smashed window.
I’m not going to get there. And it’s not my fault, or even theirs, despite the stench of liquor staining the air. Sometimes bad choices are split-second decisions that last forever. But it’s not going to be that long for the three men trapped in this car.
The Jeep starts to tip.
I shout and move faster, feet slipping on the storm-soaked ground. Slimy grass and mud. I struggle for purchase. For balance. But I don’t find it. I trip and my knees hit the dirt, bone crunching rock. Another shout tears from my chest, but it’s drowned out by the groan of struggling metal.
By screaming.
The car falls. I watch it tumble and flip, taking the sound of rain on the rooftop with it, and the eyes of the souls I can’t save.
In a split second, they’re gone, and I don’t think. I don’t breathe.
Ijump.
And I land in a hell pit that will last me a lifetime.
* * *
Now
I’ve always been good with my hands. Better than I am with my brain, which is just as well, as my brain’s been kinda broken for a while.
“Not broken, dude. Just tired.”
Thanks, Tanner. But my newfound BFF isn’t here right now. It’s just me and the poky kitchen in V&V, the bougie wine bar he runs. The kitchen I’m rushing to get finished for a chef he’s yet to employ.
Either way, I push on, and my hands seem to work of their own accord, hammering, tiling, sanding. Maybe I’m not good with them at all. Maybe they’re just better than me, and I got lucky at creation. They didn’t have the crappy ones I deserved, and I got a fuckin’ upgrade.
Strange thoughts for a Wednesday afternoon, but I’ve accepted that life is a strange thing. A year ago, I spent my summers with the wind in my face, dirt beneath my fingernails, and the Vermont sun beating down on my bare skin.
These days, I prefer the dark. Except at night, when I’m supposed to. Because, you know, that would be too convenient.
Toonormal.
Stop it.I take a breath, inhaling the familiar scent of the construction I’ve immersed myself in since Tanner gave me a job to get me off his couch and back into the real world. The land of the living. The land where people leave the house every day and walk down the street without theirfucked upbrain transporting them somewhere else.
You’re not fucked up.
True story.
Deep down, I know there’s nothing unique about what happens to me on a daily basis. I’m not ashamed. If anyone asks me why I’m shaking as I push through the crowds on Church Street, I’ll tell ’em. But the trouble with being Mr. Open About My Mental Health is that people talk to me like I’m made of fuckin’ glass.
Or they hide from me. I’m a big, brawny dude. I’m not supposed to cry when I can’t sleep. Or cry when I do. Whatever. My honesty trips people out.
All except a handful of freaks and geeks like me.
“There you are.” My favorite bartender skips into my peripheral, all bouncy curls and huge eyes.
