by David Beers
“How is she?”
"Better than you, but worse than before. She said she's seeing a therapist but having a lot of awful nightmares. She broke her lease and moved in with that friend, Eve. She’s got a long road home, maybe longer than yours.”
Alan looked to the bottom of his bed, a sad smile crossing his lips. “I like her. She's a good kid.”
Susan would keep coming until her partner was out of the hospital, but she was beginning to like seeing him in here. He smiled more in the few hours she visited than he had in an entire week on the outside. She hadn’t known Marie well before this, but his wife smiled a lot, too—at least in here.
They didn’t talk much about what happened outside of the occasional joke. To Susan, it felt like talk about work wasn’t allowed in here. Somehow this place held a halo around it that repelled anything from life outside.
Marie leaned over and kissed Alan. “I’ve got to get the girls and put them to bed.”
“Okay,” he said. “Tell your parents thanks again.”
Marie stood and looked down at her husband for a bit. Susan watched them stare at each other briefly and then saw Alan’s slight nod. Some communication passed between the two and Susan knew all at once that Marie wasn’t leaving just to get the girls.
“See ya tomorrow,” Susan said, standing up and hugging Marie.
“Thanks for coming.” Marie hugged her tight, just as she did every evening, though normally Susan was the one exiting.
She listened to Marie’s footsteps fade away, leaving her and Alan alone. “So, going to go ahead and tell me what’s happening?”
“You saw it, huh?” The bed hummed as he started to rise, sitting up higher so that they were face to face.
“I am a detective.”
“I haven’t told anyone yet,” Alan said, “but I’m leaving.”
Susan felt tears prick her eyes; emotions she hadn’t expected rose in her chest, mixing together so she couldn’t tell whether sadness or happiness dominated.
“The doctor thinks I should be able to go home in two weeks. Marie and I are heading out east.”
“Near your parents?” Susan said. She didn’t reach up to try and wipe the tears away, letting them hover on the verge of cascading down her cheeks.
He nodded. “It’ll make my recovery easier. They can help with the kids, and given that I’m their kid, they have a bit more responsibility because I’m the one injured.”
“That makes sense,” she said and the tears fell from her eyes at the last word.
“Don’t do that,” Alan said, his voice cracking.
“I’m happy. I am. I promise. You two look really good together right now, even in these circumstances.” Susan laughed through the tears. “You should have gotten shot earlier.”
“Marie said the same thing.”
Susan stood and walked over to him, placing a hand on his. “You going to be able to let all of this go? Really let it go?”
Alan stared ahead for a minute without speaking. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I have to try.”
Alicia sat in her car and stared at the three headstones.
She was alone; Mark had come before, but not today. She didn’t call Diane because the gesture would be pointless. She couldn’t come here. Not even for the kids.
Diane wouldn’t try. Maybe one day, but Alicia knew today wasn’t that day.
Alicia got out of her car and walked across the cemetery’s lawn for this year’s third and final time. Next year, of course, she would do it again. Maybe someone else would join her. Maybe they wouldn’t, but she’d hold vigil either way.
The first time had been for her mother.
The second for her father.
This time for her brother.
Only a day had passed since her last visit, which was fine. She’d make the drive twice in twenty-four hours to pay her respects.
Alicia learned a lot over the past year, about herself and her family. She finally saw a therapist. She went twice a week at first, and six months in, she backed it off to once a week. Therapy brought her meditation, which she did daily now. Alicia found that she had to do these things in order to keep life moving forward. One month after John’s suicide (and it took her nine months to be able to call it that, instead of death), life had stopped.
No eating.
No sleeping.
No speaking.
Alicia wouldn’t even take Diane’s call. She remembered driving over to that hotel, remembering how she thought she felt nothing. Within a month, Alicia discovered that she hadn’t known a goddamn thing when driving to John’s hotel. She’d been full of emotion then.
A month later?
Emotion stemmed from desire, but when desire died, so did emotion. All of it withered to a black, crumpled, ash inside Alicia. She didn’t care about living. She didn’t care about dying. Mark nearly had her committed—the only thing that stopped him was her agreement to try therapy.
A year had passed and Alicia could say her brother killed himself.
She could say her brother killed a lot of people.
Her mother covered it up.
Her father tried to stop it.
And at least a part of her, of Alicia, hid from it all.
She said nothing now as she stood over her brother’s grave. She had spoken when it was her mother’s turn and she spoke yesterday. She wasn’t sure what to say today, though.
No, it has nothing to do with today. It has to do with him. With John. You don’t know what to say to him.
Her therapist said she didn’t have to come—if she wasn’t ready, she could try again next year.
“Might not be a next year,” Alicia had said, because now she knew how easily life could disappear.
She looked down at her feet and from there to the headstone.
Loved.
Alicia hadn’t chosen the word, neither had Diane. Mark did it because no one else could, not so soon after. Alicia thought the word fit, though, and could think of nothing else to put in its stead. John was loved by everyone around him.
“Hey,” she said.
Wind met her word, taking it across the cemetery as if she had said nothing.
“People are … well, it hasn’t been easy for Diane. It hasn’t been easy for any of us, but especially for her. You made the news, to say the least. She doesn’t leave the house much; people used to hound her. I don’t know if they would now, a year later, but she still stays inside. The boys … I don’t know what to tell you. They aren’t the same boys from a year ago. I see them at least once a week and they’re in therapy, but some things you just can’t come back from. Not at their age.” Alicia’s voice broke and she started crying.
“I don’t know why you did any of this, John. I’ll never understand it. You had everything and now you’re dead. You destroyed it all and I hate you for it. You took my father away. You took my brother away. You took so much, John.
“You know what I hate the most, though? I hate that I still love you. I hate that I’m standing here at your grave by myself because I couldn’t bear not showing up. I couldn’t bear letting you be alone today.”
She paused, her vision blurry though she could still see the headstone.
John Hilt.
Loved.
“I do love you, John. I always will.”
Alicia looked on for a few more seconds and then turned from the grave. Still crying, she walked back to the land of the living.
The End.
On Purpose and Other Things
Thanks for reading, and I mean that wholeheartedly. I love telling stories and without you, that wouldn’t be possible.
I know at the end of books, a lot of writers offer you something free if you sign-up for their mailing list. What they’re doing, essentially, is buying your email address.
I don’t want to do that.
I think having a purpose in life is important. It adds clarity and meaning to what you do. I’m lucky to know mine and that purpose dictat
es my life: I’m here to tell stories. Nothing else even comes close to the happiness this job gives me.
With that said, if you like reading my novels and want to know when the next book comes out, sign-up below. No tricks. No buying your address. Just me telling stories and you enjoying them.
The way these relationships should work.
Join here: http://www.davidbeersfiction.com/splashpageic2
Afterword
This was a tough story to tell. As an author, you never truly capture everything you want to say, but I think I got as close as I ever have with this series.
I felt for John the entire time, but in the end, it’s not what we feel, but what we do. All the decent thoughts couldn’t stop John from his need to kill, and he finally saw the horror—not just to himself, but to those he loved. I believe there can be some peace in that, if nothing else.
Thanks for reading and going down this journey with me—this story was as much for myself as for anyone else. I needed to get some of these thoughts out, and if they entertained you at all, I couldn’t be happier.
All the best,
David
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