Authors: Mark Tullius
“I don’t
wanna
. I feel sick. My stomach.”
“You’re fine,” she said. “You just don’t want to go with your face all messed up.”
But that was only part of it. I couldn’t go back to all the voices, the thoughts, everything so loud I’d piss my pants. I didn’t say any of that to Mom, she wouldn’t have understood or she’d think I was even crazier than she already did. That’s why I just sat and scratched at my cheeks.
She snapped, “What did I say about that?”
I shoved both mittens back in my jacket. “I forgot.”
“Do you want to look retarded? You think they aren’t going to make fun of the kid tearing off his face?”
The slushy gray playground was right outside my window. All the kids were out there, but I wasn’t moving. I blew on my window, fogged it up with a white cloud, slunk down so low I couldn’t see out. I knew what was waiting, all the laughter, the vicious taunts. I’d start crying and they’d call me a little baby and that would be even worse.
Mom was back to smiling at herself in the rearview, her eyes not quite making it. She was back to sounding nice, too. “Come on, Joey. You know the drill.”
The drill was Mom pulled over, I got out. There was no holding hands, walking together to the gate. No kiss goodbye. But the drill was different this morning. I wasn’t moving.
Mom got something from her purse, brushed red on her cheeks until they matched her hair.
“You need to get going. Go learn your ABC’s. We’re not doing this anymore.”
My safe spot was warm. It wasn’t totally safe, but far enough away so Mom would have to climb over the seat to swat. She wouldn’t do that in front of the school. Not for a few more years.
“That’s enough,” she said. Mom flicked her eyes, played with the lashes, never once looking my way. “I’m wasting time. And gas.”
I tried not to sound like a baby when I said, “I hate school. I don’t want to go.”
Mom turned the mirror, gave her you-little-shit five-second stare. “You think I want to drive you here? You think I want to dress you in the morning or make your Lucky Charms?”
I knew a lot about Mom, way more than I wanted. I thought I knew her buttons, how far I could press them. That’s why I said, “Don’t then.”
Mom spun around, gripped the back of her seat. “Goddamn it, young man. If you make me get out of this car…”
I said, “They’re mean to me.”
Mom moved quicker than I’d ever seen, getting out and slamming her door, jerking on mine to see it was locked. She stood there in her purple leotard, banged the window with her fist. “Open this right now.”
Mom was about to break through the glass. I slid across the seat, pulled the knob up, went right back to my spot.
Mom opened the door, lowered her voice so other parents couldn’t hear. “It’s freezing. Get out now.”
I looked away from Mom’s chest, put my boots on the seat. “I’m not going.”
Mom started talking way too sweet, like her goddamn perfume, didn’t care how much they both bothered me. “Sometimes there are things you don’t want to do, but you gotta do them anyway.”
Tameka’s dad walked by which explained Mom being nice.
Mom turned toward him and waved.
When Tameka’s dad was far enough away, Mom snatched my ankle like it was some kind of snake, squeezed my boot like she was trying to choke it.
“You’re hurting me,” I said.
Mom kept her grip and yanked me across the seat. “Stop being such a sissy. Is that what you want all the other kids to think?”
I stomped my foot as hard as I could, splashed yucky gray snow all over Mom’s leg.
Mom took a deep breath and blew it out, put those eyes on me. Made me stare back.
“What do you want, Joey?” She stood there, hands on her hips, nipples pushing out that purple silk for everyone to see. “You want me to lie to you?”
What I wanted didn’t matter because Mom was holding up her don’t-you-dare finger.
“I’ll lie to you, if that’s what you want,” she said. “Say you look fine. That no one’s going to make fun of you. That the world is the most wonderful place.”
Her one-woman pep rally wasn’t making me feel any better, but that didn’t slow her down. “You looking like this is nothing,” Mom said. “You’re gonna get teased. You’re gonna get picked on. You’re gonna get beat up.”
I tried to say enough, I was ready for school, but Mom kept talking.
“You’re gonna fall in love. You’re gonna have your heart broken. Your dreams are gonna be squashed. That’s life,” Mom said. “That’s the truth. So it’s your choice, Joey. You want the truth or not?”
If I knew what was coming maybe I could prepare for it. I said, “The truth.”
Mom bent over at the waist and put her face close. Gave guys driving by something nice to stare at.
Her eyes weren’t trying any more. The fight was over. But Mom still smiled when she took hold of my jaw and turned my face side to side. She ran her ice-cold fingers over my cheeks, brushed flakes of me into the slush. “When life sucks and gives you things you don’t want, you’ve got to keep your chin up,” Mom said. She kissed the top of my head. “And keep it up no matter what, you hear? Because people are depending on you.”
* * *
That’s what Mom was saying on the phone, me on the floor, Rachel’s faceless head on the pillow.
“You can never quit,” she said. “Never.”
It’s lunchtime and Sara still hasn’t come back. I’m at my desk with the door closed, lights off, acting like nobody’s home.
I’m on no sleep and little food. I know I can’t keep this up, but how can I eat? Not when all I can think of is Rachel and what’s left of her, the saddest secret I’ve ever held.
Cleaning up Rachel’s body was my form of grief. I was crying, holding her in my arms, remembering the good times. I kept stroking her neck, because her cheek was gone, just cradled her in my arms, rocking back and forth, apologizing for all the things I’d done, for the things I wouldn’t say. I told her she was beautiful, especially her nose, the one she hated, the one somewhere in pieces behind the nightstand. For some reason, I sang Dad’s stupid song about fish heads. I told Rachel, Dad would have liked her, even though he probably wouldn’t have. It was okay to fib. The part of her that knew if I was lying was splattered all over the ceiling, the wall, the bed. It was the part she just wanted gone.
I wondered what was going through her head when her thumb pushed down on the trigger. Besides the buckshot. I hoped it wasn’t about me, prayed she didn’t go out on such a sour note. I wanted to believe she was picturing that tropical beach, just her and the surf. No one around for miles. Not a single soul with all their fucked up, twisted thoughts. Just her, the sand, a giant piña colada.
I kept rocking, picturing her turning the shotgun around, getting her fingers curled under the handle between her knees. Her thumb fits perfect.
The barrel’s so long, the hole so big and black and forever. To get this right she’s leaning forward, bending her head, mouth open.
The metal’s cold but clean. The barrel digs into the roof of her mouth, the front sight splitting her lower lip.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more. It never did.
Her eyes water when she pushes the shotgun higher, tearing into the flesh so she knows exactly where it is, making sure the angle’s just right. That’s all she wants…something to be right. For once.
Please
.
All she needs is ten pounds of pressure. Ten pounds and all of her pain will be gone. No more thoughts ever again.
She’s got the meaty part of her thumb on the trigger. She’s closing her eyes.
Ten pounds isn’t much. Just a quick shove. A quick shove and everything stops. No more Brightside.
A bead of sweat’s running down her nose, the one that’s now in pieces. Her mouth’s filled with saliva. It’s dribbling out the corners, down her chin, just like when I tried to make her drink in The Cabin. She needs to hurry. Almost there.
She’s thinking goodbye, no one around to hear. She’s thinking sorry for all the men who put her through hell. She’s picturing me, her father, the lacrosse team. She’s putting more pressure on the trigger.
It’s now or never…
The loudest bang, but she only hears one-tenth. All her problems blasting out of her head. Then silence. Peace.
Holding Rachel got me thinking about Steven. A few days after he passed, his parents had a funeral. There was some old Chinese lady playing a harp, the women wearing veils, the men holding them tightly, rubbing their arms for comfort. Steven’s mom even rented a swan to waddle around and stretch its neck as they lowered Steven’s little casket into the ground.
I’d begged Dad not to make me go, but he said every man needs to face death, it’s coming whether we like it or not. Steven’s mom threw herself on the casket. Steven’s dad pried her off. I’d never heard such screams. The swan apparently hadn’t either and started attacking Steven’s aunt. Dad told me to help, and the thing bit my hand and took off for the pond.
Still, Steven got a proper burial. Something I couldn’t give Rachel. If I had called anyone, they’d find the shotgun and they’d
drug and interrogate me until I cracked. Dad would finally get his wish to be in Brightside, but no one else would ever leave. They’d find the cave, seal it off, and we’d all be stuck. Things would change. They’d bring more Boots, more cameras, making sure none of us tried anything like this again.
I stared into Love-A-Lot’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But people are depending on me, and I’ve already let too many people down.”
I lifted what was left of Rachel into my arms and carried her to the closet. Then, with my parent’s voices telling me time was running out, I started cleaning, put on some yellow rubber gloves. I started with the big chunks, tossing them into a black trash bag, each piece plopping onto the one before. I ran out of paper towels, had to use the extra set of sheets. I kept pouring bleach, scrubbing the floors, never really getting all the blood and bits, just sort of swirling it around and around.
I took two showers, dug my nails into the soap, scrapping out the little flecks of Rachel. I scrubbed so hard at my skin I thought I’d reach bone. Then I air-dried because I’d used both bath towels on the floor. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair like it was any other morning here in Brightside. Everything’s fine. Just going to work.
I swept the last puddles towards the kitchen, made sure there was nothing left that could leak into the hall. I stood in front of the open closet, told Rachel I was sorry, that this would all be over soon. Someone would take her to the cemetery, bury her like she deserved. Then I closed the door.
The sun was beginning to rise, soft reds and yellows sifting up from the darkness. Day 100 had officially been going for hours, but it wasn’t until the sun took its place above the horizon, that this really began.
* * *
Sara finally comes back into the office right after lunch. She looks like she’s just witnessed an execution. For a second, I wonder if I’m thinking about Rachel, but I’m not. I’m just staring at Sara, wondering what the hell happened. She picks up the rose off her desk, the one meant for Rachel, the one from Alex.
“I’m going to be going away for a while.” Her voice so soft and confused it’s as if she’s still refusing to believe it. “The Council decided I need some time in The Cabin.”
“For what? You haven’t done anything.”
“The roof is off-limits and I broke the rule.” She turns to me, already in my head. She smiles. “Don’t worry, you’re fine. Sharon informed them it was part of your treatment. You’ve been cleared of all infractions.”
“Sara, you don’t have to go. I can talk—”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to fling out every single thought of mine, every moment we shared. “Don’t!”
“Sara…”
“No, Joe, you’ve done enough already. And it’s my fault. My fault for thinking…”
Sara, you don’t understand. Everyone’s leaving. Tonight. This place won’t be safe. It’s your last shot.
No, Joe. It’s yours. I’m not coming.
Sara wipes the mascara running down her cheek. “Now, I have a few hours to spend with Danny so I’m going to go.” She gets to the door, opens it, but stops. She’s thinking of asking me to stay, to put an end to this before I get myself killed. Then she wonders if things wouldn’t be better that way. She clicks her teeth, upset at herself, at me. She leaves, never once looking back.
* * *
I find Sharon in her office. She’s with this frail Spanish man, one of the new
Brightsiders
.
I shout at her, “What the hell did you do?”
“Hello, Joe, as you can see I’m with a patient.”
The little Spanish man stares at me with his sad eyes, but mine are locked on Sharon’s. “You can’t do this,” I tell her. “You can’t send Sara—”
“Let’s lower our voices.”
Unless you want to go with your girlfriend? That can be arranged, you know?