chapter 6

heart

The third time God betrays me is with myself. I blink.

I’m going down a highway. My fingers curl around the hot leather steering wheel. The sun beams through the window shield, and everything is tinted orange, but not in a bad way - I’ve got sunglasses on. Sweat trickles down my forehead, the car itself feels damp even though cool air bellows through the vents.

Today, the sky is blue. There’s not a cloud in the sky.

My hair’s grown out quite a lot, I think. She’s gone down to shoulder length, white strands interwoven between a roaring crash of black. Symbolically, I think it’s supposed to show my scars of the past. My history, written through thin strands of hair. The longer my hair grows out, the older I am.

But in literal terms, I just got tired of cutting it. So I didn’t. I think I deserve as much - I mean, my hair took a long while to grow back again. Turns out that throwing yourself into an explosion when you’re dizzy from the stench of gasoline and high heart rate might fuck you over, but I’m no genius. Besides, I turned out fine.

Because I can still smoke, I can still drink, and I can still fight. With 23 bullet holes lodged in my torso, I was still standing - laughing, dancing to a hundred different ballads at once. It felt freeing. It felt like I had finally triumphed over God - over that sick fuck that saw a child of his own and felt so much vitriol boiling in the back of his throat that he had to find some form of catharsis in me. Little old me.

Maybe, in that essence - after His many attempts to fuck me over, I’m better than God already. If he can’t kill me, then who can? You can’t. I can’t either.

As I veer the car to the right lane, I watch trees whisk past me as my eye focuses on the road.

I blink.

I’m at the front of my childhood friend’s house. The paint chipped off, and the wooden planks underneath look rough and dry. I don’t know exactly why I came here, but I think it was for the big “FOR SALE” sign in the front. It somehow shocked me that ▇▇ escaped this place. He didn’t seem like the type to run to me, moreso staring directly at the lights in front of him like a startled doe, watching as they grow brighter and brighter - until finally, impact. But it seemed like I was wrong - he never looked at the lights in the first place.

The perfect picture I had framed of him in my mind felt like it was torn apart and shredded right in front of my eyes. I felt like I was a believer of Jesus watching the last nail brutally hammer into his limb. I had finally squinted - finally able to see every glaring imperfection in the Mona Lisa.

But maybe, I think - my grand delusion has to be true, and that’s how I got here. He’s still here (or remnants of him), so I stepped inside.

Obviously the door is hard to open. It’s locked - even though the home is clearly defunct, so I take my boot to the wood and I give it a good push - hearing it crack, and eventually open. The hinges are so rusted that the door falls and lets out a groan as it hits the floor. My head tilts to that. I never knew that a house could hurt, or rather, feel.

The living room sits as I remember it. I always remember there being too much space for everything. The carpet sat a little too in the middle of the room, the previously white couch pressed against the wall too far from the carpet, and where the TV would sit, it hugged the wall like it was dependent on it. Paintings, family portraits - or remnants of so, litter the robin egg-like walls. White ordains the sides of the walls. I swallow my breath, and with ease, I look to the white chipped stairs.

One step.

I hear it whine under my weight.

Another step.

You’re killing - you know, you’re killing a man, right?

Another step.

It’s what I typically do, yeah. There’s nothing complicated to it, I just don’t like him.

Another step, and my boot digs into the 4th stair. The wood is fighting to keep itself upright.

Ohhh, God, oh man, oh man, ohhh man. Let the guy go, man, we can’t just - I really - listen, I just don’t wanna -

The 5th stair falls in on itself. I tug my foot out from the perfectly shaped hole, laughing a little to myself, and carefully leaning my leg over to the stair above that one. From there on, it’s smooth sailing, and I’m immediately greeted by it: the bright sun beaming through the broken shards of his bedroom window.

My throat feels like it closes in. I lurch forward. He’s sitting on the floor, and we’re making our Halloween costumes - and he’s laughing at me, and his mother isn’t too far away because she doesn’t like me being alone with him. I’m painting my mask. I’m putting it on - the buckles and the straps tighten, and when it was bigger before, it could barely wrap around to my chin. Look at your boy now, he fits.

I breathe.

It fits.

I blink.

The house is on fire.

I blink.

I’m back in my car, my elbow rested on the console. The sun is still shining. I’m divine.

I blink again.

"… So you’re blind, in your..other eye?" Cassidy asks me. "How’d that happen?"

"Was in the service." I remark.
"Ohh."
"Served for a little - then my partner, middle of the night, says - “Hey Toro, wanna try something? I know you’re awake. Let’s try something.” and I get up, and he’s picking my face up with his hands, and he tells me not to move. I don’t. I stare at him for a solid 3 minutes."

I take a sip -
"And next thing I know, he’s slowly pressing one of his thumbs into my eye. I’m unmoving. He’s laughing, and I’m not moving an inch. I don’t remember what happened after that."

She’s staring at me with her elbows leaned over the register while her cheeks are cradled by her hands. Her hair isn’t held up too high this time around, and it drapes over her shoulders like a thin blanket. I think it might weigh too much for her. Her eyes twinkle at my story like I’m the most interesting thing in the world.

"Really?" She says, almost childishly. "I knew those burns had to come from somewhere. What happened?"

"A land mine." I answer.
"You’re joking."
"No I am not, miss. Sure as hell was a land mine."
"You must have really good insurance. Wouldn’t you be in a wheelchair?"
"The right answer is should’ve been in a wheelchair, miss. Almost wish I was. Just so it could humble me a little - haha."

Her smile made mine grow, but I wasn’t happy. It felt like I was a reflection of her, trying to keep up with the pace. Fix the charade so I don’t look stupid, even if I do. Her lie reflected my lie. But I felt uneasy once she laughed again and pointed it out.

"First time I’ve ever seen you actually emote before."
"What?"
"Smile, mister. First time I’ve ever seen you smile. You know, it looks good on you."
"Huh?"

"I’m saying -" Cassidy tucks the strand of hair that violates her forehead to her ear, "That you should smile more. Goes a long way. My mom told me that."

I feel such a nausea inducing emotion that I almost excuse myself. My face contorts, and as a form of safety, I pick up my mug and sip on it again. I feel so strange I don’t know what to do. Do I kill her? Am I supposed to kill her? Why would she say something like that to me? Is she trying to be funny? Am I a fucking joke to this woman?

She must’ve noticed, because then, she pauses for a second to ask if I want my mug refilled.

"Yeah. Fix me - fix, fix me another."
"You got it, mister."

And I follow her behind the counter.

I blink.

I feel a wave of anger. I’ve never felt such a fiery emotion before, explosive in that it felt like a fuse that had been running for years finally had a reason to set off. I’m breathing through my nostrils - my mouth feels dry, and the only words that come to mind are, "How dare you?" My fists are so tightly clenched it feels like I’ll pop a joint. In front of me, a red flag swings.

I blink.

I’m smoking a cigarette outside of Babe & Al’s.

I blink.

When I look up to the sky, I see a raven.