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I throw on one of Smoke’s t-shirts and my Converse, and when I’m sure Smoke isn’t in the house, I go search outside.
I’m worried about him. The thought is laughable, but it’s true nonetheless.
At first, I don’t see anything until I spot a light in the far end of the yard up by the main prison. I walk toward it, and I find Smoke, staring down at the ground. He doesn’t look up as I approach.
My eyes follow to where Smoke’s staring blankly down at two large stones atop an overgrown mound of dirt on the otherwise flat land.
Those aren’t rocks.
They’re headstones.
“You can ask,” Smoke says, reading my mind.
I think for a second it could be a trap of some sort, but I ask anyway. My curiosity getting the better of me. “Who is buried here?”
“My parents.”
“Who…who buried them here?” I ask, dreading the answer.
He looks up slowly. Our eyes meet.
“I did.”
* * *
“My parents were really young.Too fucking young. Teenagers. Runaways. They were both stuck in the cycle of partying and drugs when I came along. We’d move around from couch to garage to abandoned building. We were homeless, for the most part. They were good parents when they weren’t fucked up. From what I can remember, anyway.”
“What happened to them?” I ask. I can’t help myself. I feel for him. I reach out and place my hand on his arm.
He looks at our connection then up to my face like he’s deciding if he’ll approve of my touch. He nods and I leave my hand where it is.
“They always went to this house. It was one of the old outbuildings around the prison. I went to there to search for them after I woke up in a prison cell all alone. They weren’t there. No one was. I hated that house. Hated what the things in there were doing to them. So I crawled on my hands and knees under the crawlspace. I cut the gas line and pushed it up into the main water pipe and lit a match. I almost didn't make it back out, my pants snagged on a nail and I had to tear away the fabric to get free. The force from the blast sent me sailing into a tree. I dislocated my shoulder. Broke my arm. But I barely felt the pain. All I felt walking back to the prison cell was happiness. But then they never came back.”
“They were in the house, weren’t they?” I asked.
He nods. “They were too fucked up to answer the door. I buried what was left of their belongings here. It wasn’t much. Just some clothes and shit. The worst part was after the initial shock faded, I felt relieved. I no longer had to wonder if they were coming back. They weren’t. I made the decisions from then on out. I was happier because they were dead.”
“I'm so sorry.”
“Why? Because I accidentally killed my parents? Don’t. I’m not. Not anymore.”
I’m thinking that the incident with his parents was the first step in the transformation from boy to the unhinged man standing before me.
“You were a child,” I tell him. “You shouldn't feel bad. You were eight years old. You had no nurturing or supervision. It’s not your fault. There’s nothing to feel bad about.”
“You don’t know a thing about it,” Smoke snaps.
I push against his arm. “Not about what you went through, but I know a thing or two about being alone! After my mother died, my father checked out on me. He worked in the basement and for years, I would only see him when he was giving me money for groceries. He didn't tell me what to do, but he also never told me what not to do. I was barely out of the toddler stage, but I was raising myself, so don’t give me this ‘how would you know’ bullshit because I know plenty.”
“Then how did you end up so…”
“Don’t you dare say normal. I don’t think that word has ever applied to me.” A few moments of silence passes between us before I speak again. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I used to pretend my mother was there. I used to pretend she was telling me what to do. I went to bed at 8 PM every night because I pretended she was giving me a bedtime. I took my baths, I ate my vegetables, all because I imagined I had a mother who wanted the best for me.”
“What about when she was alive?”
“I don't know how she was when she was alive. I don't remember her. I tried and tried and tried to remember her; I’d stare at her picture in the hallway every day trying to remember one thing: a word, a look, even a yell or scold, but nothing. The only mother I know is the mother of my imagination. So you see, just like you, I raised myself.”
“But, we still ended up very different people.”
“Yes,” I agree.
You’re on one side of the gun, and I'm on the other.
Smoke looks back down at the grave. For a nano-second, I feel the heat of his palm on my lower back before he drops it, flexing his fingers and cracking the knuckles instead.
Is he trying to comfort me, or is he seeking comfort of his own? It feels almost like an apology for something horrible to come. Dread builds in my gut and jolts into my heart.
I’m not sure why the sudden confession from Smoke or why he’s shared this part of his life with me, but I’m very aware now that there’s much more to him than I’ve realized. There’s only one reason why he’s choosing to be personal with me now, and it’s not a good one. “You’re still taking me to him, aren’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I…I don’t know.” There’s no emotion in his voice.
I take a step back and suck in a ragged breath. I hold my stomach like he’s just kicked me in it.
“Well, thank you for your honesty, Smoke, but you can keep your stories to yourself. I didn’t need you before. I don’t need you now.” I almost trip on a rock. Smoke looks like he’s about to help steady me but stops himself as I quickly recover. “I’ve never been a big fan of consolation prizes.”
My throat tightens as I turn and jog back to the house with hot tears streaming down my face and disappointment burning in my heart.
“I told you nothing was going to change,” he calls out.
His words stop me in my tracks. I turn back around.
The stars are twinkling overhead. A wolf howls in the distance. Crickets chirp all around us. Proof that horrible things can happen in the most magical of nights.
I march right up to him and stab my index finger into his chest. “But everything has already changed!”
“I told you I don’t have a choice,” he grates. I see the pain in his face and hear it in his words, but it’s not enough, and it won’t ever be enough.
“Why?” I ask, rethinking my question. “You know what. That doesn’t matter. You always have a choice.”
He shakes his head and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Not always. Not in this fucking case.”
I push on his chest and walk away.
“Yes, you do. You just won’t choose me.”
