Page 20

I glance around the cabin, where not one picture of Russ and me sits anywhere in the room. Neither one of us were particularly fond of the other side of the camera, but it’s strange that not a single memory was captured in the last nine years. As if they never existed. Only the pictures of things that I captured with my camera, in an attempt to get better at composition and angle. Simple objects, and nothing more.

These days, I try to document as many moments as I can, because I’ve come to learn that the mind is not a reliable enough storyteller of the past. Its memories are an ever-changing landscape that moves and slides with time. Like a viscous liquid that can be poured into any shape.

This old, outdated picture is the only physical evidence I have, aside from a couple of unsavory, candid snaps I took of Russ, of whatever life transpired, and it isn’t even mine. I wonder if his son ever knew him. If he ever pondered what kind of man brought him into the world.

If he ever even thought about him, at all.

Even if he didn’t know Russ existed, there’s a comfort in knowing a small piece of him remains in the world somewhere.

Cracking open my scrapbook, I flip through pages of things I’ve collected over the years--a newspaper clipping of the murder that I printed off from the library, and a drawing I made when I was thirteen that got me in trouble with my teacher, of a man wearing a goat mask with pointed horns and holding a bloody knife. None of it a trigger for me, as if I was reading about someone else. I know what happened, based on what I’ve read, and I see a masked face in my mind, but if asked to recall the events of that night, I wouldn’t know where to begin, or end. The first vivid memory I have of the after is the sun beating down on my face, and the scent of leather and cigarettes clogging my nose, when I woke up on the front seat of Russ’s truck, scared and confused.

Next to where the note from Marty sat a second ago is a box with a silver bow, one I’ve dreaded opening. A gift from Russ for my twentieth birthday. If nothing else, he held on for that, and I celebrated at his bedside, listening to him rag on me about getting old. He’d handed it off to me then, maybe hoping I’d open it in front of him, in a bid to make me cry, but I refused. For four days, I’ve held onto this thing in an effort to avoid his sentiment. I’m guessing he bought it a while back, when he could still get around okay on his own, so this could be anything.

Even now, my stomach twists at the thought of what could possibly be inside. What he could’ve possibly thought to leave for me.

An anxious breath fills my lungs, hands trembling for whatever reason. Why I have to be so damn sentimental all the time, I’ll never know. I lift the lid of the box, and frowning, I draw a blade out from its bedding, holding it up in front of me to reveal the ugliest carved hilt I’ve ever seen in my life. Ivory, from the looks of it. The carving itself is beautiful, if not elaborate and gaudy, with the face of a wolf staring up at me.

A burst of laughter flies past my lips, as I twist the knife around, the rounded tip of the hilt reminding me of a dildo. The thought makes me laugh harder, and I bend forward, nearly dropping the blade on the floor when I try to imagine him picking this thing out in a store. How could he possibly miss the similarity?

Probably a good idea that I waited so long to open it. Would’ve probably pissed him off to see me laughing at his gift this way.

Also inside the box is a note, and I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes before nabbing it up and flipping it open.

Dear Cely,

You know I’m not good at words, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. First thing, I know we’ve had our differences, but I want you to know, raising you was never a burden. Was nice having you around, keeping me in line.

Second thing is, the world’s a big place. And life is too short to get hung up on the past. Live. Fall in love. But don’t ever let some ungrateful prick put out your fire. You find someone that burns with you. For you. You’re aces, kid. Always remember that.

Have fun. But not too much, right?

Always, Russ.

The paper blurs behind the shield of tears in my eyes, and I toss it aside. Damn it. Of course, he had to get his last dig in, his last attempt to make me cry over him. The mug he always used, with Bad Muggerfucker scrawled across it, sits between my crossed legs, filled with the Chamomile tea he’d sometimes sip when he wasn’t gulping down alcohol. I wrap my hands around it, letting the heat warm my palms, and take a sip of the tea. The bitter, sour flavor puckers my tongue, and I fish-gulp it down my throat, before setting the cup aside. Ugh. If old cat ladies were a flavor, it’d taste like Chamomile tea. “How’d you drink this shit, Russ?”

Staring down at the mug, I trace my fingers over the handle, remembering the way he’d mock himself by sticking out his pinky finger and pursing his lips before sipping. A tearful laugh escapes me, one that quickly darkens to a sharp, acidic burn on my tongue. The resentment of watching him willfully decline over the last few months.

I hate you. The thought stirs inside my head, tension and anger mingling with the pain and fear I can’t bear to face right now. Doesn’t matter that the words are harsh and untrue, it feels good to be furious. I prefer it over the pain.

“I hate you,” I dare to whisper. “I hate you.” A little louder that time.

More tears spill onto my cheeks, my teeth grinding out the anger inside of me, simmering, boiling, waiting to spill over into hot steam.

“I hate you! I fucking hate you!” The scream tears out of me on a sob, and I bury my face into my tucked knees, screaming into the endless void of misery. “I hate you!”

I’m alone. Alone in this fucking cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Alone, alone, alone.

Tipping to the side, I lie down on the stiff floorboards, curled into as tight a ball as I can, and watch the flames crackle, lulling me, pulling me into a warm state, as if trying to draw the agony out of me and burn it away.

What seems like minutes pass, with the incessant tick of the grandfather clock that grows distant, and the heat of the flames gives way to a cold brush, like ghostly fingers spiraling down my neck. An eerie sensation sends me upright, and my eyes snap open to the dying embers that flicker with a weak glow. The dark room stands quiet and still. Too still.

Gone is the heavy snore I grew accustomed to, the gasps of little air and damaged lungs. All that remains is the scratch of trees against the house outside, over the sound of blood pulsing in my ears.

Another brush across my neck, and I swat my hand over the spectral sensation lingering there. At the sound of a creak, I turn to see an object crawling over the wall. Dark and shadowy, it moves like an animal on all fours, but the long, bony fingers splayed against the wall’s surface tell me it’s human.

Sucking in a breath, I kick backward, knocking over the mug of tea, spine smashing against the wood frame of the couch behind me.