He nods and runs into my embrace, wrapping his tiny arms around my neck as he hugs me. Aroundhere, we hug all the time. Neither Seven nor I grew up with open displays of affection. The boy’s body is so diminutive compared to mine, so fragile. I always fear I might hug him too hard, but then I remember, there’s more than one way to break a boy. The way I was broken, beat-down by a world that demanded me to be someone I wasn’t.
When I let go, Seven takes the boy inside while I take a longing glance around the yard. It’s small and the views aren’t spectacular. Our yard ends where the next trailer sits.
There are two vehicles in the driveway. An old red Ford Ranger parked behind a car that doesn’t run. It’ll roar to life someday, but for now, it’s a lawn ornament fit for a trailer park. An old Challenger that’s seventy percent rust and thirty percent beauty. Same year as my father’s dearly departed classic, but she needs a lot of work before she’s ready to drive to the grocery store, let alone a cross-country road trip.
Someday, maybe when Little Silas is older, Seven and I are going to give this road trip thing another try. The only ghost that’ll chase us is the thought of Little Silas throwing an underaged party when we’re gone.
He’s a good boy, though. Charismatic like his father, without the penchant for human suffering. Sometimes, I wonder how much he remembers about his life at the compound. How much he remembers about that night. Every now and then, he talks about his mother in hushed whispers. Seven stresses over thethought of Little Silas becoming like his father, and I’m left to remind him that people aren’t born evil. I don’t think so, anyway, but I’m not a psychologist.
In the future, when he’s old enough to understand, we’ll tell him the whole truth. Maybe scribble a few parts out. That day probably won’t be until Seven and I are gray and wrinkled, but someday he’ll know.
Fight or flight. Ask anyone on the outside and they’ll swear up and down I’ve always been a fighter. If they peered any closer, they’d know I was born a runner. These days, the only place I’m running is straight home after a long day of work.
I make my way back inside to find Little Silas at the small round dining table parked against the window in the kitchen. He colors pictures of dinosaurs while Seven sits in front of a laptop, tapping away. I grab a package of fresh hamburger from the fridge, toss it into a pan, and begin browning it for the kid’s favorite meal. Spaghetti and hamburger bits. Gag me.
Some days, Seven writes like a madman. The words come like we do—fast and hard. Other times, his fingers linger on the keys a little too long. I think he doubts himself sometimes, or maybe he gets lost in the memories of the trauma we experienced out there on that broken highway.
In the immediate aftermath of the violent path of destruction left behind us, I felt extreme remorse for getting away scot-free. No evidence exists that I pushed Kevin down the stairs, though anyone with eyes can seethe truth. As for all the bodies littered along the way, chalk it up to self-defense and the testimony of a few survivors.
A hundred and seventy bodies were recovered from the compound. They call it The Silent Massacre, and it’s one of the biggest mass-suicides in history. I was dragged into that place contemplating my own existence and walked out with a will to never think about dying again.
What few survivors there were couldn’t recall seeing Silas take a swig. One even swears she saw him coyly spit it out. She claims watching him do it gave her the conviction to do the same. The shadow of Silas hangs over our little family—a ghost who’s always there in the periphery of our vision. Dead, but still his shadow hangs.
But Seven and I no longer run from our ghosts. We face them head on.
Whenever I’m confronted by the ghosts in the rearview, I revoke every little bit of power I ever handed them. A part of me will always be somewhat broken, but that’s life.
As for Seven, he faces those demons with the power of words. He swears the memoir will be a bestseller someday. Promises over and over again he’ll use the money to buy a farmhouse with land as far as the eye can see.
I believe in him, the way he always believed in me. Truth be told, when that day comes, I’ll miss the trailer park. Life is simple here.
Nothing in the world is more haunting than the songs of crickets after midnight. The moon is in a lull, hiding beneath the horizon. The air is crisp and cool with a calm breeze.
My father used to read me a book about the stars, and how we become one when we pass. Even as a little kid, I contemplated mortality. I remember confiding in him. Told him I was scared the day would come when he would die. He said he’d always be there, the brightest star in the darkest night skies. If he was right, he’s up there somewhere. But I find myself wondering if the wicked exist as stars when they’re gone, too. Are Mother and Kevin up there, too? Watching me. Watching this.
Seven’s shadow passes under the dim porch light as the screen door creaks to a close. He joins me, taking a seat on the top step and resting his head on my shoulder.
“Do you know what today is?” I ask.
“Hump day,” he whispers.
I roll my eyes, all the while trying to hide an amused smirk. “Do you know what else today is?”
“Nothing is ringing a bell.”
“I’ll paint you a picture. It was a hot, humid night when some dumb boy almost got himself killed?—”
“I don’t think that’s the way the story goes.”
I reach for a small box to my side. “I met a boy that night who changed my life.”
“Who is he, because I would very much like to—” He shifts his gaze to the wooden box as I pass it to him. Underneath the glow of the porch light, the letters ‘SN’ can be seen etched into the top of the box. “Are those our initials?”
“No, it stands for shush because you’re always talking.” I catch a sideways glare from him. “Yes, it’s our names.”
Seven and I disagree when it comes to our anniversary. His stubborn ass believes the date falls on the day I told him I loved him in the prison cell. In my mind, it’s the day I almost ran him over with my car. It’s been three years since that day.
I watch him as he pries open the box, half-expecting what’s inside and half-surprised
