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ONE
SYDNEY
One of theonly things I remember from my childhood is my father murdering a man in cold blood right in front of my eyes. I knew at that moment that I needed to get out.
I was seven.
If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can still smell the smoke from his cigar mixed with a metallic tinge as blood seeped from the bullet hole. The only thing he did was cast an evil downward glance the man’s way, his face twisting in disgust as he placed his gun back down on his desk.
He sat there then, looking from me to my mother. She was furious at first. Her words lashed out at him like fire. But when he looked me in the eyes and told me that one day I’d have to do the same, her voice quieted.
It was understood that this was necessary. Something needed to desensitize me.
It never did.
It didn’t take me long to realize my parents weren’t good people. Pain and suffering followed them. Followed me. I spent most of my teen years away, and eventually, they stopped calling. Stopped expecting anything of me.
Eventually, I escaped.
So when I got the call on Wednesday that they had died in a tragic accident, I didn’t feel much at all. I still don’t, despite the fake tears running down my face and the perturbation in my heart as old family acquaintances approach me, asking me how I’ve been.
I’ve been good. I’ve been doing fine on my own. I never missed them. Maybe the world will be better now that they’re gone. Do you know what they’ve done? Do you know how many innocent people they’ve slaughtered without a care in the world?
I want to scream. To run away from here. To go back home, curl up under my covers, and only emerge when this is over.
“Are you okay?” Adam asks, his hand on my upper back. His presence always soothed me, making me feel a little less alone.
I nod, running my fingers through my hair, desperately wanting to put it up after an older woman I didn’t recognize told me I look so much like my mother. We always had the same flaming red hair and the same green eyes.
She meant it as a compliment. It was sincere. Friendly and warm. But to me, it felt like a slap in the face. Words meant to cut deep. I smiled at her anyway, despite feeling the words hit me like a gut punch, and told her thank you.
“We’re definitely going out after this,” he mumbles, looking around at the hundreds of people who showed up to celebrate my parents’ lives. I wonder how many of them are secretly glad they’re dead, too. I wonder if any of them feel the same way I do.
“I’m going to need a drink for sure,” I say, picking up my bag. I look around the room at all the faces that showed up, and unease rips through me, settling on my shoulders like the weight of all the lives they took have transferred to me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to three.
One… two… three.
When I open them, nothing changes. I groan, annoyed. Then I close my eyes again, hoping, praying that surely this time it’ll work.
This time, I focus on what I can smell.
Cheap perfume, death, and, underneath it all, iron.
I need to stop thinking,I think to myself. But in reality, I think I just need to find a better fucking therapist.
“I need a second; I’ll be in the bathroom,” I tell Adam, not bothering to wait for his response. I move through the room, attempting to avoid all the eyes watching me go. I keep my head down, not bothering to be polite when hands reach at me. Grab me. I keep going.
How do I talk to these people when their condolences all sound like admissions of guilt?
The voices grow louder, pulling me in every direction, and I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing they would just stop.
And when I open them, everything stops.
A large man stands in the corner in a black suit, his black hair messy and his eyes dark. His tan skin glows under the dull fluorescent lights. And he’s looking right at me.
My breath catches, and I look for Adam, finding him talking to a group of girls across the room. I’m not sure who they are or why they’re here, but it’s not unusual for Adam to find girls to talk to wherever he goes.
Trust him to find a gaggle of them to flirt with at a funeral.
