Page 38 of Creeping Beautiful

It’s a slow fuck. And nothing about this time is anything like the last time.

There is no rush. There is no urgency. There is no one else. Watching, or waiting, or second-guessing what we’re doing.

It’s just us.

And everything about that feels wrong.

But we don’t care.

Because nothing about this has ever been right.

CHAPTER SIX - INDIE

I have gone through two journals now and I have a feeling that I will go through dozens more before I’m done. Donovan always said it was a good idea to journal. He says getting things down on paper helps you see things clearly.

Sometimes I think seeing clearly is overrated. Most of the time, really. Show me a person who prefers sharp clarity over a soft hazy fog and I’ll show you one cold, mean bitch.

That’s how they are.

I know. I was one of them once upon a time.

Back when I first came to Old Home I was all about seeing things clearly. Face the facts, Indie. The truth shall set you free.

But there’s another saying that many people forget about.

Ignorance is bliss.

Like Adam and Eve before they ate that stupid fruit.

Or was it just Eve who ate that apple? I can’t really remember. Never was much of a biblical girl. And even though Adam dragged me to church every fuckin’ Sunday, I didn’t pay attention. I just counted things. Ladies’ hats. Stained-glass windows. The number of birds in those windows. Not sure why there’s always a damn bird up in that glass, but the church we went to near Old Home had seventeen birds up there. I always thought that was a little excessive.

They were all doves too. Which are kinda boring, if you ask me. Doves. What do doves do but fly through the air and remind you of Jesus?

They don’t scare people like snakes do. And who wants to think about Jesus when you’re killing people?

They should put a big, black raven up in those windows. Now that’s a bird that demands attention.

Not sure it matters who ate that apple though. That’s my point. It’s all just good and evil in the end and you just take your pick and live with it.

That’s why I’m not afraid of snakes.

They come bearing gifts, don’t they? Apples. Adams. It’s all one and the same.

Adam was always big on telling truths, though. God, how that used to drive me crazy.

“Indie,” he’d say. And he always said my name like it was a curse word. “Indie. You tell lies like a bee gathers honey.” By which he meant, like it was my job.

I wasn’t a liar though. That’s the part he never understood. I was just a storyteller. And who doesn’t like a good story?

Everyone does. I don’t care who you are. If you tell a good one nobody is gonna complain about your story being lies. That’s the whole point of stories. It’s fake. That way you can make your story say anything you want and no one ever gets hurt.

All the stories are fake. Even the true ones.

That’s a lesson I learned early.

But I should clarify this right here, right now. Nathan St. James was neither a storyteller nor a liar.

He saw facts. But you know why this was OK with me? Two reasons, really. One. His real-life truth was better than anyone’s fake story.