“But you’re going to investigate to make sure that’s the case, right?”
“Of course we are. Now, what else can you tell me about Matt?”
Not much. Brazen will have to fill in the blanks that I can’t.
By the time I’m done giving my statement, I’m drained. Despite my fatigue, I go off in search of Brazen, who’s sitting in the kitchen where I left him with his face in his hands. I want to cry and scream and go out searching for our friend. I don’t know what the right moves are here. I don’t know anything. How could anyone know what to do when something like this happens?
I come up behind Brazen, and he jumps a little when my fingers graze his back.
“It’s me,” I reassure him. “What do you need from me? How can I help?” Instead of asking him, I should have probably figured it out on my own. I don’t want to give him anything else to think about, but I always want to make sure he’s taken care of.
“You are helping.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “Just be here with me. That’s all.”
“I love you, Brazen.” I can’t believe what’s happening.
“I love you, too.” His voice tells me he can’t fathom it either.
When the cops leave, things couldn’t feel more unresolved, and we’re almost powerless to do anything about it. The police didn’t seem worried. I’m not sure if that’s because they believe Sunday ran off or if it’s their professional mannerisms. I’m torn between believing their emotionless tactics are what we need to find her and being worried that they aren’t worried enough.
Sunday is missing, and Brazen is blaming himself.
He couldn’t have known. There is no one to blame but Matt.
Brazen paces his home, and I know he’s having a hard time taking the backseat. It’s killing him to sit and wait for someone else to find Sunday. To keep busy and so that I’m doing something to help, I find a picture of Sunday and make a Missing Person sign. I can hang these up all over town. Someone must have seen something. There must be one person who knows anything that could assist in the investigation. You see Missing Persons flyers on television. I never thought I would be sitting in my boyfriend’s home office, making one.
Yet here I am, doing exactly that.
They’ll find Sunday soon, and this will all be over with. Matt will finally suffer consequences for everything he’s put her through. I trust in positive thinking, which is all I really have at this moment.
Everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
It has to be. I can’t believe any other way.
The front door opens and then slams closed, and I jump up, hoping it’s Sunday. My feet move at top speed, and I’m at the door in record time to see Brazen’s mom frantic and crying.
“Is it true? Oh, please, tell me it isn’t true,” she pleads.
Brazen’s mom was his second phone call after the police.
“Beth, I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can manage before she drops to the floor.
“No. My baby. My girl. Oh no. Please, no.” Each word is choked out between a sob.
Brazen rounds the corner as his mom falls apart. If it’s possible, I think I see his heart break right there, in the hallway. I never, ever want to see this look in his eyes again. He runs to Beth and drops to the floor with her, holding her against him.
“We have to be strong for Sunday. She’ll need us when she comes home. We can’t fall apart.” He rocks his mother while she cries in giant heaves of sadness. His comfort calms her just a little.
Deciding to give them a little space, I go into the kitchen to make coffee for when they are ready. No one will be sleeping until Sunday is home, safe and sound, so the need for caffeine is a safe bet.
As the pot finishes brewing, Brazen and Beth enter the kitchen.
“Cream or sugar?” I ask her.
“Just black, sweetheart.” Her voice is hoarse and broken.
The three of us sit and wait in silence until a ringtone sounds. The vibrations rattle against the table. My stomach drops, and Brazen must have the same bad vibe because, as the phone rings, he just stares.
“Do you want me to get it?” I don’t want to overstep, but I want to ease his responsibilities.
He finally breaks contact with the phone and looks up at me. “No, I got it.”
The ringing stops as he hits the Accept button.
“Hello?” he answers with a shaken voice.
The silence that follows couldn’t be any longer.
Brazen listens, and Beth and I sit on pins and needles until he grumbles out a response, “Okay, we’ll see you soon.” He ends the call and lets out a rattled breath. “The officer in charge of the case is on his way over. He has news,” Brazen announces with zero inflection.
“Did they find her? Is Sunday okay?” There is so much hope in Beth’s questions.
“He wouldn’t say over the phone. He just said he’d be here shortly to speak with us.”
And so, we wait while our coffees turn cold on the counter around us. I check the time on my phone what seems like every thirty seconds, and it takes approximately six minutes before the doorbell rings. Brazen leads the way as we all go to the door.
No words.
No greeting.
Just a look.
With one look at the officer’s face, I know he isn’t here with good news. Nothing about the way he approaches us says, We found your loved one, alive and well.
“No.” Brazen can read the room, too, as his denial flies from his lips.
Beth moves to stand closer to her son. I hang back, bracing for the news.
“I’m sorry.” The officer looks Brazen in the eyes. “They found Sunday’s body.”
Brazen
CRASH!
Liquor rots at the bottom of my stomach.
Shards of glass explode around the room.
Outrage bubbles inside me.
I stagger, and my hands hit the floor.
Has it been two or three days since I identified the lifeless body of my best friend?
Blood colors the scattered pieces of the broken bottle on the floor.
The whiskey makes everything a blur.
I can’t feel anything but the fury in the form of alcohol and pain running through my veins. The good memories of Sunday feel so far away, buried under twisted, ugly hostility. I’ve shut everything out.
My mom.
Noah.
Anything good.
Right now, as I crawl on my hands and knees on my bedroom floor, I wonder if I’ll ever remember happiness again. It seems unlikely as my stomach rolls, and the smell of copper grows stronger beneath me.
“Brazen!” Noah shrieks my name as she enters my room.
I just give up. My heavy body hits the floor, and my nose collides with the hard surface beneath me.
“Get out.” Despite how hard I force out the words, they come out jumbled and slurred. I don’t want anyone near me, not even Noah, especially not her. I want to be left alone in my drunken grief.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t speak to me.
Please, don’t comfort me.
Just go away.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her hands assess me, checking on the damage I’ve done, and I recoil away from the careful affection.
“You’re bleeding. I need to get you cleaned up.”
“Noah!” I push out her name, and it still sounds like one mangled syllable. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want your help. Leave me the fuck alone.” My hand slams against the floor, and I finally feel something.
An intense sting of agony hits me as glass lodges deeper into my skin.
She ignores me, which fans my irritation.
My knees buckle as I attempt to rise and run from her touch, and a grunt of frustration rips from my throat. Spit flies from my mouth and mixes with my blood on the floor. I want to lie here in my own misery, and Noah wil
l only prevent that.
Sunday is gone.
She’s dead.
I’ll never see her again.
Noah’s arms hug around my chest, and she attempts to heave me from the floor while huffs of strained air push from her lips. “Brazen, I can’t lift you. I need you to work with me. I need to get you away from all the glass. Please, help me help you.”
“It hurts, Noah.” Tears cascade from my eyes, and I’m embarrassed by my weakness.
“Brazen, you’re covered in glass. Of course it hurts! Please get up!”
“It isn’t the glass. That isn’t what I’m saying.” I’m not surprised she can’t understand my garbled speech. “He killed her, Noah. She was supposed to escape, and I let him get to her.”
Fire burns down my cheeks as more tears are spilled.
Weak.
Pathetic.
I don’t deserve Noah’s kindness.
I should be gone instead of Sunday. I’d give anything . . .
“Baby, please . . .” Fear and sorrow choke her voice. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
I’m so deep in my own emotions as the alcohol clouds my mind that I can’t even bring myself to want to end Noah’s panic. “I can’t do this.”
Any of it.
All of it.
I just want to lie here and let everything come to an end.
Life.
Love.
Pain.
Loss.
It hurts too fucking much.
“You can, Brazen. You’re strong, and I’m here when things start to get too heavy.”
“Too heavy?” My eyes cross as laughter rips from my chest. “You don’t think things are already heavy, Noah? I lost my best fucking friend. Don’t you think that’s enough to kill me? You can’t help me. No one can. Can you bring her back? Can you find Matt? Can you do anything besides hover over me?” My voice carries louder with each sentence, and suddenly, I have the strength to stand. I sway on my feet as I look down at the unwavering girl in front of me, who doesn’t blink an eye at my crazed hollering.
“You get one pass, Brazen. ONE. To talk to me the way you just did—that’s it. Do it again, and you’ll find out what it’s really like to suffer through this alone. You’re hurting, and I love you, so I’m giving you this one pass, but you won’t use me as your punching bag to get through your grief. Are we understood?” She crosses her arms and waits sternly for an answer.
I don’t give her one.
One step, and I’m falling to the floor. In my inebriated state, my limbs don’t support my weighted stature. I close my eye and brace for impact. Before I kiss the ground once more, my decline is stopped midway when I fall into Noah’s open arms. Breath wheezes from her as I barrel into her chest and knock the air from her lungs. My feet drag, and I struggle to open my heavy eyes.
“Just go,” I whisper. “Let me fall.”
I’m too weak to escape her grasp as I beg for her to leave.
“Never. I love you, even at your worst.” Her voice is so much stronger than mine.
Dark.
The room starts to spin.
Dark.
My body moves without my power.
Dark.
I see a glimpse of my unshowered, battered body in the bathroom mirror as I somehow enter the bathroom.
Dark.
I bounce in and out of drunken consciousness.
I pray for the darkness to take me and sheath me in its numb oblivion.
Drifting.
Further.
Deeper.
Darker.
The torment of reality is gone for only a second before I’m hit in the face.
Literally, water rushes at me from the showerhead and disrupts my stupor.
My hand grips at the side of the tub, and air bursts from my mouth as Noah comes back into view, this time much clearer than she was before I started to pass out.
Dread anchors my heart as I see her, covered in blood, and I’m frantically moving.
Suddenly, I sober up significantly.
“Noah!” The wet sports shorts on my bottom half slow me down as I reach my hand to her face. “What happened, baby? Are you okay? Who hurt you? Oh, fuck! Did I … oh, shit … did I do this?” A stinging pain hits me as my body twists, and only then do I realize I’m covered in blood also.
“Shh.” Noah pushes my shoulders back. “Calm down, Brazen. You have glass everywhere. I’m not hurt. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me. You would never. The blood is yours.”
I look down, and my sight lingers on my blood-covered hands.
All at once, I’m aware of the glass shredding my skin.
Red mixes with the water soaking the bottom of the tub.
“Noah!” My voice breaks as I call out to her.
I need her. I need her so fucking bad.
“She’s gone, Noah! She’s gone!” How can this be happening? Please wake me from this disaster of a fucked up realm of existence where Sunday no longer exists. My body shakes, and my heart hammers.
Noah grabs some tweezers from the medicine cabinet and fully clothed, she climbs into the tub with me. Water rains down on us both as my blood stains her clothes once more.
Nothing has ever hurt like this. There is so much loss inside my soul.
“I love you, Brazen.” Her lips press against my chest. “I’m so sorry.”
My foggy head aches, and my stomach threatens a revolt, which I gag as I choke back. The day’s worth of drinking catches up to me, and the hours of running from what’s happened come crashing down hard.
“Sunday wouldn’t want this for you.” Noah tends to my many wounds.
“Does it really matter what she’d want?” I lie helpless in a lump in the tub.
“Brazen! Of course it does. It matters now just as much as it ever did.”
“You should leave me, Noah. You deserve better than the man I am right now.” A shudder runs through me as I make the admission.
If she leaves, then I wouldn’t even exist anymore. Maybe that’s why I’m telling her to go. So that I can wither away in a numb existence.
“I’ll say this as many times as you need to hear it. I’m not going anywhere.”
I wince as Noah pulls out a rather large piece of glass from my shoulder with the tweezers between her fingers.
“I love you, Noah.” My words are tired and heavy, and my eyelids start to sag.
“Let’s get you out of the tub so you can go to sleep, Brazen, and when you wake up, I’ll still be here. I’ll always be here. Plus, I have a promise to keep to make sure you don’t fall apart.”
A promise.
She has a promise. I can guess to whom, and my chest tightens.
I once thought my word could be counted on, but look how badly I’ve failed.
I told Sunday I’d keep her safe, and my word was destroyed.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Sunday.”
Brazen
Things got better since I drunkenly passed out, covered in glass in my tub.
Then, they got worse.
And then I guess things improved.
Can things really be better in a situation like this?
I haven’t found the bottom of a bottle again and haven’t drunk myself to an oblivious mess.
I guess that’s better.
I don’t remember each and every word, but I’m still beating myself up for the way I treated Noah when she found me. I lashed out at the person who was here for me the most. I’d think losing someone would teach me to cherish the people in my life, but sometimes, selfishness and grief overpower what should be the lesson.
I’ve apologized over and over again.
Noah won’t hear it, and I hate that she’s giving me a pass. Maybe I just want her to get angry, so I can focus on that instead, but she’s been nothing but patient and caring.
Especially today.
Noah’s black dress holds my attention. The long material hits just above the floor, and my thoughts aren’t dirty when I look
at her, so very far from it. I’ve seen her in dozens of dresses, but this one is the only one I can say I hate unequivocally. I might even throw it away when this whole mess of a day is over.
It’s been a week and a half since Sunday went missing, and today, we’re gathering to say good-bye. The church Sunday grew up in is littered with white flowers, and the pews are filled with people she knew. I can’t face any of them. I don’t want to spew idle words or make others feel better about my pain. I want to stew in the anger. I want Sunday to walk through those church doors, wearing anything but black, and tell us all there was a mistake. I want to ditch this service and go out and find Matt.
The police still haven’t found him.
Killing someone has never been something I’ve contemplated. It’s never been something I thought I’d crave, but if I could get my hands on that piece of shit, there wouldn’t be any hesitation or remorse. I’d make him suffer and smile while I did it.
Sunday is the last person who deserves this. She’s a good person who did nothing wrong, except marry the wrong man. She is the best friend I could have ever asked for. She’s the person who has always been there for me. She’s the person who would be there for anybody. She is . . .
Was. She was all of those things. Her life was ended selfishly.
A supercilious connotation has always crossed my mind when I’ve heard people say, “Why them?”
I know loved ones in mourning don’t wish harm on anyone else, but I can’t help the negative thoughts that filter through my mind when people rationalize the choices of the universe happening to their loved one. As if the tragedy would make more sense if it had happened to someone else.
I’d never lost someone before though.
But, now, I can’t get the thought out of my mind.
Why Sunday? Why someone so undeserving? Why my best friend?
“Are you ready?” Noah asks, approaching the back of the church where I’ve been hiding, watching all the people filter in.
There is a spot reserved for my mom, Noah, and me in the first pew. Pretty much the last place I want to be today—front and center. What’s worse is, I have no idea if Sunday’s parents are coming because they didn’t answer my calls when I contacted them. The story has been splashed across the news, so they must know. They lost the respect I had for them a long time ago. If they show, they show. If they don’t? Well, fuck them. They should have been showing up for Sunday all these years, and they never did. Why should that change now? It’s too late. It’s too late for them, and it’s too late for Sunday.
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