Agony is all I feel when I fall to the ground.
I rest the weight of my body against the wheel behind me, drawing my knees to my chest, reclining my head.
I’m shaking when Harlen does the same, and meets me right where I am, the wheel at our backs large enough to take us both.
We sit in silence, listening to the wind in the trees and an owl in the distance when I suck back a breath and tell my best friend, “I killed her, man.” I swallow my words and I feel a muscle in my neck tick. I turn to look at him. “My own mother, I fucking killed her, and then…”
A tear rolls down my throat and I shove it away, sucking on the inside of my cheeks. “I put the barrel in my mouth,and I thought…I thought…” I begin to laugh, it’s a complete disconnect. I don’t recognize it, don’t know where the sound is coming from, but it’s bitter and degrading. “I thought I squeezed it…the trigger.” I’m shaking my head, tears streaming down my face, I palm them away with both hands. “Fuck, I thought I did it…but I…” Each word is spoken through my teeth. “I couldn’t,” I whisper, at the same time silence falls, broken only by my breath. “I couldn’t even get that right.”
Harlen says nothing, until he does.
“Kinda glad you fucked that up, bro.”
My body dips when the front wheel catches in a kink at the edge of the desolate road.
On the outskirts of Devil’s Peak, we draw closer to Rusty’s wood-paneled home set deep in the bowels of the woods that sit on the opposite side of town to Devil’s Peak mountain.
Rich emerald pine trees sway and rustle with the light wind as I step out of the truck, slamming the door closed at my back. I can hear the lake in the distance, the smooth flow of water moving with the breeze that skims delicately across the surface.
We corner the edge of the house, stepping onto the pristine polished wrap-around deck to find Rusty sitting at the outdoor table.
A cigarette is pressed between his lips, a bottle of whiskey perched in front of him. He’s highlighted by the shallow light spilling from the open door behind him and the subtle glow of the moon lingering above.
“It okay if Chase takes the room—” Harlen begins to ask his father, but his question is clipped almost instantly when Rustycoughs and leans forward, spearing the burned-out filter into the metal ashtray in front of him. He drops it to the dish and reaches beside it, swiftly lighting another.
My stomach tightens, my chest too.
I’ve known Rusty for years, spent more nights on the clubhouse’s couch than I had my own bed, but never had I stayed here. There was a difference between offering a dingy couch to someone in a building that never slept, to a room in a sacred space that holds memories you wish not to forget.
It came with questions, ones like, did I really know this kid enough to let him take up a room in my home? Or, the one that scared me most,could he be anything like his father?
My throat clicks when I swallow, my thoughts frightening me. I knew I was nothing like him, but did Rusty? Would he take that chance on me; the boy that just killed his family?
The legs of the metal chair Rusty is sitting on screech when he pushes it back, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He comes to his feet, and I watch his hands tremble when he drags both palms through his golden curls, drawing them away from his face.
The sharp cut of his jaw tenses, the bone ticking. He reaches out, his hand finding my shoulder, thumb pushing to my neck. Rusty clears his throat, then speaks. And his words are so quiet around the cigarette in his mouth.
“Welcome home, kid.”
I drag my eyes over my forearm when they drip. My heart has fallen to my stomach, landing in a pool of agony and relief, and when I raise my eyes, meeting Rusty’s misty blue ones, I see a matching kind of pain, something like recognition, staring into the face of my own.
I nod.
And he nods back.
And I make a promise to myself, to never forget what my best friend's father just did.
Buttery-gold sunlight streams through the thin floor-length drapes, spearing over the gaudy yellow walls.
I’m sitting across from the air mattress in what was once Harlen’s mother’s art room, staring at the polished wood flooring flecked with rogue splats of colorful paint. Each, a gentle reminder that she had once been here too.
The thought curls my insides, makes my skin prickle.It should make me feel less alone knowing that loss is something me, Harlen and Rusty now shared—that we were each intimately acquainted with death in a similar, agonizing way—but it doesn’t. Because living a life without Jade, without my mother, is to live a life without color.
My eyes are burning; my throat is too. The bottle of whiskey beside me is almost empty. I haven’t tried to move. I don’t know if I can. I don't know if I want to either.
My window is cracked open and I listen to tires crunching over rock, the first sound I’ve heard aside from the wind squealing, the trees rustling and a crow squawking. I’ve been here, in this same position, for hours, perhaps days. I wasn’t sure about that either.
There’s a quiet hum of an engine until it’s sharply cut off, followed by a door opening, feet shuffling, then Rusty’s voice.
