True Story

by Kate Reed Petty

  He went inside and got two beers and set them next to him. He planned to spend at least another hour slicing wood. He would slice all of the wood he could find. Physical work is the only cure for busy thoughts. Lindsey used to say that. Yes, you’re right about that, Lindsey.

  He got into a good rhythm after the second log. It was better if he set the logs on their side and ran the saw in a straight line away from himself. It made him think of Lindsey. He wished she could see him doing this. He always wanted to impress her.

  The third log was tricky to balance, so he held it with his left hand. He was comfortable enough with the saw now to use it one-handed. He just locked the safety shield up so that he wouldn’t have to hold it with his left hand. He put his left hand on the log to hold it still. He had a lot of natural talent, he realized. He wished Lindsey could see this. He was a smart enough guy. He’d done well that one year in college, and he picked things like this up easy enough. She would say he was wasting a lot of potential, and he knew it. But he was still young! He was getting older, though, he was twenty-six, only four years away from thirty. Really, he didn’t have a huge amount of time to set himself up for the rest of his life. But he could still do it. And this weekend was coming at just the right time. He would straighten out all this drinking, and by next month he’d have figured out what to do with the rest of his life. Maybe a small business he could start. Or maybe he’d go finish his degree in criminology. Look at how resourceful he was being, cutting wood. Maybe he would meet someone else. Or maybe he could get Lindsey back. He could ask her to marry him.

  She wanted to get married. He should have married her. She’d brought it up all of a sudden. Do you even want to marry me? He couldn’t remember how he’d answered. But it hadn’t been the right thing.

  He saw now that marriage would have stabilized him. He would have gotten his shit together. Lindsey saw that, too. That was why she’d asked. But he had been too dumb to see it. He had always been a step behind her.

  But he had never understood what changed. It was all of a sudden. A week or two after she asked him about marriage. She had stopped drinking a month earlier. It was like she was a different person. Then one day they were shopping for a new couch. She was getting a new apartment, with two bedrooms. Nick was afraid she was going to ask him to move in. Was going to bring up marriage again. He was goofing around. Trying to distract her. Said something about cushions, about springiness, about jumping on a couch like a kid. He was bouncing on his ass on a white puffy couch when he looked up. Realized she was staring.

  “You won’t change,” she’d said. And turned and walked out.

  Nick was so shocked he didn’t follow. Was angry, actually. She ran away! He sat on the white couch. Waited. Slunk out half an hour later.

  Wouldn’t answer her door. Wasn’t allowed in her office. Waited out front but she never came. Must have seen him. Must have sneaked out the back. He was so furious. Wouldn’t even give him one last fight. Had to fight her in his head. Got tired of it. Tried to forget about it. Got over it. Then relapsed. Worried suddenly: Was there another man? It was a month after, maybe six weeks. He’d followed her. Followed her to work and home. She’d gone to the doctor. She’d gone grocery shopping. She’d cried in her car. He almost went over to comfort her. But how to explain? Plus he was drunk. So he just watched her cry. There was no other man. There was just Lindsey, crying alone in her car. She’d gained weight, she looked different. She was different. Healthier without him. He stopped following after that. He tried to get over her. He was getting over her. She was better off without him.

  He could be better. Better without her. Except on days like today. Or that one afternoon. Straight from the gym. Took off her shirt. Purple sports bra. Left her sports bra on while she

  He had cut through the fingers of his left hand. Wait. No, not right. Not right.

  He should probably let go of the saw. He did. It whirred to a stop. His brain was stuck on this odd loop, screaming wrong wrong wrong, but another part of his brain just wanted that screaming part to calm down and look at his fingers. Fingers fingers fingers, his brain screamed.

  When the horror cascaded over him it was a physical coldness, not a metaphor, a real and strange sensation of being dunked in water. He could not believe it even as he realized that it had really happened, this thing that was a thing your shop teacher said to scare you, not a thing that could really happen. He felt the cold air on the wetness of the blood and wiped his hand against his pants but his hand did not touch his pants, his hand was shorter than it should have been, and he finally physically realized that he’d cut off the fingers on his hand, blood blood blood blood, his brain screamed and at least he knew he had to stop the bleeding so he raised his hand, like an eager child.

  It was strangely calm and time was strangely slow as he wondered what to do, and maybe two seconds had passed when suddenly the pain cracked through and he screamed.

  His vision blurred at the edges and he realized he was going to pass out and he sat down, his hand still in the air, his own screams echoing back at him from across the meadow. He panted. He would need to put the severed fingers on ice. He looked at the stump and they were not there, he had imagined them curled against the edge of the saw blade, like the kind of cheesy Halloween prop he imagined teasing his future children with, but the saw was on the ground and the fingers were not there, and he saw the blood spattered along the saw blade in a delicate spiral.

  Blood blood blood, he had to stop the blood properly, he reached under his flannel and vest and pulled his undershirt away from his body and wrapped the mangled hand in it, so that it was cradled against his stomach, and this helped clear his mind, it was wrapped and out of sight. He looked for his fingers and could not find them. Bourbon bourbon bourbon, his brain said suddenly, the true and best solution to every problem, so he carefully got to his feet and grabbed the can of beer and drained it and then walked into the house and found the seventy-dollar bottle and drank, three fingers of whiskey, ha ha ha.

  He took a deep breath and another sip and then thought, in quick succession, keys wallet drive drive drive. Bandage first, his undershirt was soaked with blood, he opened a cabinet and found nothing, not even a roll of paper towels, there was the towel in the bathroom but it was too big, his arm was tired, so he took his last clean undershirt and sat down on the bed and got ready to unwrap his hand.

  The pain was insanity as he felt the fresh wetness of blood and forced himself to look, with one eye, at his hand, it was a horror show, still bleeding and a flat surface at the end of his thumb and first two fingers, a cutaway with bone like a cartoon steak. He gagged but controlled it (a lifetime of practice, ha ha ha) and quickly covered the hand with the undershirt and wrapped it, gasping, forcing himself to tug it tight. He cursed himself for not bringing a belt. He didn’t even own a belt anymore. He went into the kitchen and got a pair of scissors and cut off the strap of his backpack, the scissors not very sharp and gnawing at the plastic fabric, but he got it through and wrapped the strap around his forearm and pulled it tight. Then somehow he had tricked his body into finally releasing endorphins, a flood of relief hit his head and while there was still pain it was lined with optimism. He realized this was all Lindsey’s fault. But no time to dwell. It was time to drive. Outside the sun had set, the glow in the woods was getting faint. Keys wallet go.

  He got into the car, the bottle of nice bourbon between his legs. There was one good thing, of course, which was that this would cut probably a year off of his mother’s sympathy, which would get him closer to rock bottom; she had spent his entire life trying to stop him from putting an eye out and now he had gone and lost two fingers and a thumb.

  Self-mutilation, he realized, must absolutely be step twelve. He’d done it without having to drive away his mother! He was purified, he had survived, he had skipped several steps and hit rock bottom without having to alienate his mother. He felt giddy imagining
himself as the star of an AA meeting, telling the dramatic story of the day he finally hit rock bottom, because how many other people’s rock bottom was cutting their own fingers off with a power saw?

  By the time he had passed the meadow and entered the woods he was in a state of complete focus. He felt clearly every inch of car tire coming in contact with the dirt road, felt that he could anticipate every curve and that he

  It was still Saturday, he was pretty sure, and he knew before he opened his eyes that it was the worst hangover yet, the deep regret and guilt were there, a feeling before he identified its cause, and his entire body felt like it was coated in three inches of nausea, a physical goo. He was also very cold, and his muscles hurt from shivering but also continued to shiver, and he didn’t want to open his eyes but he was so thirsty, he had to pee, so he opened his eyes and saw, in the daylight, that he was sitting in the front seat of his car, which had run into a tree. The sight reminded him about the problem with his hand, but he decided not to look, didn’t need to see it, instead he just left his hand where it was, wrapped against his stomach, maybe it was just a little broken, maybe it was just a bad dream.

  He hesitated, living for a second longer in the moment of possibility—maybe his hand wasn’t that bad, maybe the car would still start—and then he turned the key in the ignition and the engine made no sound at all, only the CHECK ENGINE light clicked on. He turned the key several more times, it didn’t work but he felt too weak and sick to feel angry about it, then he looked around with no real purpose other than to find something to make him feel better and then, huzzah! There was the bottle on the floor with some nice bourbon left in it. He drank it all. Felt it course through his veins. He leaned his seat way back. Closed his eyes, tried to relax. His body tried to shiver and couldn’t. His muscles hurt. So cold. He counted to three. Then again. The third time he was able to force himself to open the door and get out.

  He had driven the car a few yards off the road. Tracks through the dead leaves, over a log. He looked beyond the hood. If the tree hadn’t stopped him, the car would have kept going. Would have hit the steeper part of the hill. He would have picked up speed and maybe died. Small mercies. Or maybe that would have been better.

  He wished he had a little more whiskey. He already knew what he was going to have to do. The highway was fifteen miles down the road. But he could see the porch of the cabin through the trees. He could make it there. There was water there, and another pint of whiskey. Someone would come and help him.

  He kept his left hand against his stomach and reached out for the nearest tree, fell into it. Leaning against the trunk he got his pants unbuttoned and peed, it was a weak little dribble, he tried not to wonder but couldn’t help wondering if his dick was broken, but hopefully it was just his kidneys.

  He straightened up and turned, reached for the next tree, fell forward to lean on that one. Leaning heavily against it, he got his feet under him again, and in this way he started moving. He got a little steadier as he felt his blood flow, was able to walk a little farther between falls.

  He had no idea how long it took him to get back to the house, if he had to guess he would say that he’d walked for three years, but eventually he stumbled onto the porch, falling forward up the steps, then into the door, he fumbled with the door handle, and then felt a sharp pain in

  Nick woke up with his face on something hard and gritty. There were a dozen tiny specks of sandy dirt pressed into his cheek, and his mouth felt coated in gravel. He heard himself moan. He pushed himself up onto his right elbow and with his hand brushed off the grit that stuck to his cheek. He felt tiny pockmarks dug into the flesh, and worked his jaw.

  He was in the cabin. It was dark, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw the dim shapes of the couch, the pile of logs by the fireplace, the low dorm-room refrigerator of the kitchen.

  The pain in his left side was spreading along his arm. He remembered his hand.

  He tried to get up. He tried again. He admitted that he couldn’t. “I guess I’m just going to die here,” he said out loud, coughing.

  And then with a cold sensation he realized that it might be true.

  This was a first. The first time he seriously considered the possibility of his own death. Was this one of the steps?

  He imagined Lindsey coming up to the cabin and finding him, his body rotted away, just a thighbone in the closet. Ha ha, he thought, and coughed again. He imagined her coming tomorrow. His mother calling her, Nick took the car, it’s been days, and Lindsey knowing he was up here, the way she always knew—she knew him! She knew him so well!

  He wanted to cry, thinking about her. He thought about how he had seen her crying in her car. Why hadn’t he gone to her? He would go back. This was why he had come to the cabin. Where he really wanted to be was with her.

  He would go back to her. He would show Lindsey that he could be a good man. He would make her understand.

  He tried to get up again and this time he succeeded a little bit. He made it onto one knee. With a Herculean effort he wrenched his other leg over and flipped his body around and then pushed with his right hand and found himself standing, a low crouch, in the dark. Progress!

  He leaned over and held on to the back of the couch and steadied himself. Then he looked up and saw a face in the window. He froze. There was a man right outside the window, standing at the end of the porch, looking in. Then he looked and saw another man standing in the next window over. Nick spun around and saw another face looking in the side. There were dozens of them, looking in from all the windows. They were holding shovels by their faces, like pitchforks.

  “Wait a second,” Nick said. But the door handle was rattling.

  The men were opening the door, they were coming into the cabin.

  “Wait,” Nick said, but his vision was swimming and narrowing, a roar swelling up in his ears, and he turned and threw himself toward the mudroom. He hit the wall and pulled himself in, then lurched to one side, knocking over the case of tools, screwdrivers flying. He lurched to the other side and grabbed the handle of the side door. He wrenched it open, took two steps into the yard, and then froze.

  The yard surrounding the cabin was filled with graves.

  Nick’s brain clicked several times over the fact. He saw irregular rows of graves winging out like seats in an auditorium. He heard banging sounds coming from the cabin behind him, the men with shovels coming for him. This must be a dream, this must be a dream. He could feel the grit in his cheek, the pain in his left hand, he felt real. This was real. He was going to die.

  And then for the first time he realized he wanted to live.

  He put his hand over his heart and he thought about Lindsey. I love you, he thought. I’m coming.

  He imagined himself running. He focused his mind, and then he counted down, One two three go, and then he really was running. He traced the narrow gangplank between the graves, he dodged from side to side like he was playing lacrosse again, and then he realized that if he closed his eyes he could go even faster, his feet were barely touching the ground, the trees were whizzing by on either side and it was

  Nick opened his eyes like Ziploc bags. He saw the guardrail of a highway rolling by in a continuous stream.

  He lifted his head and flopped it over to his left side and saw a strange man driving a car. It was the car that Nick was riding in. Okay. So Nick was in the passenger seat of a car.

  The driver was in his sixties and wearing an orange hunting cap. Nick tried to say hello and let out a sound that was like a dying frog. “Hey,” the man said, glancing over. “It’s okay, buddy.”

  “Izz thizz a dream,” Nick said.

  “Hey, buddy, you were in a car crash. I found you this morning on my way to my hunting blind. You hit smack right into a tree. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Ay’z dreamin,” Nick said.

  “You were driving,” the man corrected him. “
You were in a car crash.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “You know anything,” he said, very slowly, enunciating as well as he could, “about holes in the ground? Like graves?”

  The man glanced nervously at Nick, then kind of reached over and gently punched Nick’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy! You’ve had a hard time. Don’t worry, we’re just a little more ways from the hospital now.”

  Nick tried to rub his face but his left hand wouldn’t move. He looked down and saw it wrapped up in the dirty shirt against his stomach, and the skin at the edge of the shirt was swollen and shiny. “Ohhhhhh ssshhhhit,” he said, remembering his hand.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” the man said.

  “I was up there,” Nick said. “Graves everywhere. Do you dig graves? To hunt people?”

  The man looked at him and kind of laughed, a quick exhale. “Listen, you’ve had a hard time, just relax now, okay. There’s water if you need it.” He gestured toward a bottle in the cup holder.

  Nick shook his head, looked out the window.

  He felt like shit, but his brain was starting to clear. He was starting to see what had happened. He’d really gone off the deep end this weekend. He’d cut off his own hand, crashed a car, had some serious hallucinations. But then again, he had to hand it to himself. No pun intended. He’d really managed to punish himself these past three days, hadn’t he. He’d really seen the worst of himself. And hadn’t that been the whole point?

  He glanced over at the guy who was driving. “Sorry. I’ve been hallucinating,” he said. And then, for the first time in his life, Nick said, “I’ve got a problem with alcohol.”

  The man looked uncomfortable and said, “We’re almost there.”