Keith: Rug Burn
It was strange the things that mattered when everything was right in the world – like the internet dropping out in the middle of a game or someone forgetting to replace the roll of toilet paper. When life was easy, even the slightest irritant became paramount, and it wasn’t until hell rained fury down upon my cushy little existence that I was able to see what was really important. Family.
And now part of us was gone – stolen into the night. I didn’t know where to go or how to conduct myself. Activity swirled around me, but I experienced none of it. The fear was all-consuming. Jake was gone and, after the story Kyle told of his last moments, there was a good chance he wasn’t coming back – at least not without a goddamn miracle. And I had my doubts whether my family, as a collective whole, had done enough to warrant such blessings.
While my distraught mother wailed at the top of her lungs, a feeling of doom incapacitated me. I knew instinctively if Jake didn’t come home, our family would not survive this. My thoughts shifted to Sam. How had she kept her head above water? What reserves had she tapped into to keep going when her world fell apart? I’d been there for her when she’d poured her soul out to me. I’d given her comfort and the reassurance that she wasn’t alone. But I’d had no idea what I was talking about – no idea of the pain that was attached to her loss. When it came right down to it, we all walked through the darkness alone, and, god help me, if this nightmare was real, I wanted to be the first one blazing the trail to oblivion.
So as the hours ticked by with no sign of my little brother, and with no glimmer of hope, I began looking for an out. And, oh man, was I ever ripe for the plucking. It would take nothing for the bad influences to wrap their hands around my neck and drag me under. I hadn’t been clean long enough to adopt any new coping mechanisms, and even though I’d thought that life was behind me, it was actually still there, just lying dormant and waiting for the right trigger to relight the smoldering itch inside. And what could be more igniting than losing my little brother to a demon?
The phone vibrated in my trembling hand. Sam. Again. Why couldn’t I just answer her call? I needed her right now. She loved me. I loved her. If anyone could talk me off the ledge, it was my girl. So why then was I refusing her help? The answer was obvious. I refused to allow myself the luxury of her voice because Sam would want me to face the reality – to deal with it clear-eyed. But with clarity came pain, and if I’d proven one thing in life, I wasn’t strong enough to endure tough times. Hell, even mildly uncomfortable ones were enough to push me over the edge.
I shoved the phone in the drawer and sprawled out on my bed, regret burning a swath through my tormented brain. Instead of savoring the minutes I’d had left with Jake, I’d spent those final hours as I did any other given weekend in the McKallister household – arguing with my brothers. It was our unique way of beating back the boredom. Today’s squabble had been nothing extraordinary… except now, in hindsight, it made me want to throw up.
Like the bratty little brothers they were, Jake and Kyle had snuck into my room while I was playing video games and rearranged the entire floor plan. They’d pushed my bed under the window and wedged my dresser into the closet. They’d even removed the posters from my wall and flipped them upside down. I’d been livid and felt justified teaching them a lesson. Jake was first, and like a caveman, I’d dragged him down the hallway of our family home. Not that he’d taken offense. Jake was a McKallister boy, after all. Retaliation was not only expected but anticipated. In fact, he’d acted as if sustaining a series of rug burns was the most fun he’d had all week.
On any other day, our argument would’ve faded away like all others. But now that it was possibly my last memory of him – and maybe Jake’s last memory of me – all I wanted to do was rewind the whole day, before he and Kyle decided to go out skateboarding, before a gun was pressed to his head… before my little brother had become a statistic.
Smothering my face with a pillow, I tried to block out the images of Jake and what he had to be going through – if he were even still alive. Of course he was. I couldn’t give up on him. There was always hope, right? Jake had only been missing for about eight hours, and that meant we had time for a miracle. He could still be set free and come home – not unscathed, of course, but we could deal with the aftermath later. I think I spoke for us all when I said we’d take any outcome that didn’t end in death.
Mom’s wails had died down. I knew I should be out there offering her my support. Or I could be at the hospital where Kyle was currently being treated for the injuries he’d sustained in the kidnapping. At the very least, I could be with Emma on the couch quietly deflecting her offers of serving me up the now-cold dinner still sitting on the kitchen table. But I wasn’t hungry – well, not that kind of hungry, anyway. The only thing that could satiate me now was tucked away in a shoebox in the far corner of my closet. I’d meant to rid myself of its contents long ago, but like that Ho-Ho hidden away in a yo-yo dieter’s pantry, it was still there, patiently awaiting my relapse.
As the night turned to dawn with no news of my brother, I crawled from my place of safety and retrieved the box. Sam’s beautiful face filled my vision, that sun-streaked hair of hers blowing in the breeze as she told me she loved me. I could lean on her. She’d understand and help me face the challenges ahead with clear eyes and a functioning brain. I clutched the box, the one that promised sweet relief from the pain.
I’m so sorry, babe. So damn sorry, but I’ve got to wipe you from my memory banks – just for tonight.
Deep down I think I already knew it wouldn’t be just one night – not for me. This was one more crossroads, and I was about to make another very bad decision.
With regret already tearing up my gut, I opened the lid.
16
Samantha: To a Head
Isat in my car watching the house. Nothing had changed in the three weeks I’d been coming here after school to do my homework and stake out the McKallister family residence. Jake was still missing and Keith was still gone, lost to a world I didn’t understand.
Those first few days after Jake’s abduction, I was convinced Keith would come for me. We would talk and cry and hold each other. I would help him through whatever obstacles were keeping us apart. But that day never came. It was as if he’d vanished off the face of the earth. Well, not totally. His stoner friends knew where he was, but they weren’t talking, which left me scrambling to find my boyfriend before the dark forces swallowed him whole.
My daily searches at the beach turned up nothing, and even my stakeouts of his family home – the ones that got me a talking to by the FBI - hadn’t yielded any clues. As everyone searched tirelessly for Jake, no one seemed to notice that the boy I loved appeared to have dropped off the face of the earth. And I wasn’t entirely sure anyone except me was looking for him.
Slowly but surely, life in this sleepy coastal town was returning to normal… for everyone except the McKallister family. And me. Once reality set in and the likelihood of recovering Jake alive diminished, the reporters dropped away, and the police and FBI, once a large contingency, trickled to a handful.
As I did everyday, I debated whether to knock on their door. Some days I did, with no response, and other days I left them alone with their grief. Coming to my decision for the day, I exited my vehicle, walked up their front stoop, and knocked. I knew Keith wasn’t there, but I felt I needed to be his advocate – to be sure they were aware of his absence. Plus, if they did have any information about him, it might just ease the anxiety clenching knots in my stomach.
When there was no response, I knocked again. It was what I always did – gave them some time to answer, hoping today might be my lucky day. I startled at the sound of movement on the other side of the door, and then suddenly it opened a crack and a little boy stared up at me. His hair was a wild mess, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of what I assumed to be hand-me-down pajama bottoms that were hanging off his little body.
“Hi.” I leaned down to address him. “You must be Quinn.”
He peered up at me, squinting in the sun, and I wondered how long it had been since he’d left the house.
“Who are you?” he asked, much too suspiciously for a child his age. “I’m not allowed to talk to reporters.”
“That’s smart thinking, but I’m not a reporter.”
“Are you coming to take me away?”
His question was unsettling enough that I bent all the way down to his level before I asked, “Take you where?”
The little boy’s eyes dropped to the ground, and then I understood. Quinn wanted to know if he was next – if I had come to steal him. He was too young to grasp what was happening, and so he had come up with his own conclusions.
