Come As You Are

by ChristopherWaltz

come as you are

  a novella

  Christopher Waltz

  Copyright 2015 Author's Name

  For Tyler Clementi, whose tragic death is proof that the world has a long way to go before it can be considered a good place. And for James Clementi, whose bravery is proof we might one day get there.

  And for Kurt Cobain and the band Nirvana, whose music has touched and inspired millions.

  Without any of them, this story would not exist.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Connor,” my mother said as I put the phone up to my ear and answered with a low, guttural moan that was meant to tell her I was still sleeping. It was just past six in the morning, but her voice was frantic and I could hear her holding back tears. The only thing I didn’t know was if they were tears of sorrow or joy. It was honestly hard to tell with my mother.

  “They found August,” she said.

  This was the moment I’d been waiting for, that we all had been waiting for, for nearly two months. My younger brother had run away from home in September and we hadn’t heard from him since.

  August had disappeared, technically, on September 2nd, but he had been smart about it, or as smart as someone planning on running away from home can be. He had conveniently lied to our mother and father, telling them he would be staying at a friend’s house for the weekend and that he would be home in time for dinner and to get his homework done on Sunday night. My parents should have seen this as an instant red flag, as August really had no friends.

  That Monday, I awoke to my phone ringing and answered to the nearly-frantic voice of our mother, much like the call I had just answered, asking if I’d seen or heard from my little brother over the weekend. I, of course, had not heard from him that weekend and had, in fact, not even seen August since my birthday, two weeks earlier. (Ironically enough, I had been born in August and my younger brother had been named August. Make of it what you will.)

  “Has he called you?” our mother asked, her tone noticeably higher than normal.

  I took a moment to yawn, as it was before seven in the morning, and answered her promptly. “No, Mom, I haven’t heard from him since the party. He told me ‘happy birthday’ and went back to brooding in the corner like he always does.” It was harsh, but true. My brother had what anyone would call emotional problems and often avoided any and all conversational situations. The fact he and I had spoken for more than five minutes was practically a miracle.

  “This is serious, Con-nor!” My mother snapped at me. The way she said my name sent shivers through my spine. It was a common, normal name, but when she put emphasis on the second syllable like that, it would make anyone cringe.

  “What’s going on, Mom? Did he run away again?” I asked. I was an aspiring musician, trying to feed on the fame of past generations; I wanted to be the next big thing, and my family’s personal problems were, at the time, the least of my worries.

  There was hesitation on the other end of the phone and I waited impatiently for my mother’s response. I had a recording session with my band later that day and had hoped to sleep until at least ten or eleven. “He lied to us,” she said calmly.

  “Mom.” I was trying to mask my frustration. I could tell my mother was genuinely worried, but this was no big deal to me; he lied all the time. August was known to lie about anything from his grades and other aspects of school to what he had for lunch that day. It was as if he’d made a hobby of it. “Is this news?”

  She was obviously choosing her words very carefully. “Well, no, but we got into a fight the day before he left,” she admitted as I waited, silent, for her explanation to go on. “It was a big argument that I think everyone is ashamed about. We all overreacted.” I thought for a moment about how my mother’s use of the word ‘overreacted’ could have easily been an understatement.

  This was when she explained that he had left on Friday and hadn’t been seen nor heard from since. I wasn’t worried by any means, but the truth of the matter sunk in that August had run off and could have made it a pretty great distance in three days’ time, depending on his mode of transportation. He didn’t drive, but he could have easily hitched a ride or even scraped up enough cash for a taxi.

  As we were growing up, it wasn’t uncommon for August to pack his backpack full of items he deemed essential for survival (often including peanut butter, clean underwear, and his favorite CDs) and hit the road, even if hitting the road only meant walking a few blocks, getting scared, and coming home an hour later. Often his flight attempts went unnoticed by Mom and Dad, but I was keen to his actions.

  As all this was going on, as I went with my parents to file a missing person’s report, I knew that deep down, they blamed me for his disappearance. Yes, they had gotten into a heated argument with him, but I was the one he idolized. I was the older brother who had gone against the grain and tried his hand in the music industry, if you could call playing one or two shows a week in cramped, smoke-filled bars being a part of the music industry. But still, August longed to be like me and his longtime hero, Kurt Cobain. In fact, the day I decided to move out of my family’s Anderson, California home and abandon working in the family business was probably one of the only times I ever saw August crack a smile. He and I were alike in the sense that neither of us ever wanted to be funeral directors like our father.

  That’s right; Thomas J. Sennett was owner and operator of Sennett Funeral Home, located at the heart of downtown Anderson, a family tradition since 1958. He had grown up in the same house I had grown up in, following his father around the funeral parlor, preparing the deceased for their viewings and helping mourning families deal with their losses. However, while Thomas J. had been eager to get his mortician’s license, I had jumped ship shortly after turning nineteen and got the hell out of Dodge before it was too late. However, with me gone, the only living male heir for my father to turn his kingdom over to would be my brother, who also wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

  Thinking back, it must have been rather depressing for Dad to be part of a dying breed, but how could anyone in the funeral business expect to be anything but depressed at all times?

  I was snapped back to the present by my mother’s continued sobs. “Did you hear me, Connor? Did you hear me?”

  I wasted no time in answering. “Yes, I heard you.”

  “He’s been living in Aberdeen, Washington,” she said. “He got drunk and fell off a bridge.” What she said next was so muffled by her sobs that I couldn’t even begin to make it out. Trying to calm her, I was at a loss for words myself. It seemed he really was living the life of a rock star.

  He was a special, bright, extraordinary guy, but the kid had no follow through. That is, until the night he drunkenly fell from the Young Street Bridge, plummeting into the Wishkah River below. Luckily, he had been dragged to the shore by a kid named Ezra who he had been spending his time with on the streets of Washington.

  “He’s in Aberdeen?” I asked. It made perfect sense to me now; Aberdeen, Washington had been the birthplace of musical legend Kurt Cobain. My brother, wanting to follow in his footsteps, would obviously travel there in hopes of starting his own music career ten hours away from his dominating parents. In the back of my mind, I wondered if he realized how cliché his actions had been. Probably not; he likely thought it had been the best plan in the world.

  The entire world in front of him, and he ran away to a dump
y town ten hours from home.

  Mom gave herself a second to calm down and began to speak again. “Yes, at Grays Harbor Hospital. We have to go pick him up today.”

  She had said the word I honestly had hoped she wouldn’t. ‘We.’ I could tell by the sound in her voice, she wanted me to travel with her, and probably for good reason, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. Why couldn’t Dad go with her?

  Without notice, she seemingly read my mind and sobbed an answer. “Your father wants to come, but he has so many clients at the parlor.” That’s what they called it, ‘the parlor.’ “He can’t afford to leave and get behind schedule. Will you please come with me, Connor?”

  I mulled the thought over in my head, trying not to take too long to answer. Aberdeen was roughly ten hours away, which meant that if we left soon, we could be there by early evening. We’d have to check August out of the hospital and would probably end up staying the night in Washington, but to be honest, I really didn’t want my mother going on this trip alone. They didn’t call Aberdeen the Hellhole of the Pacific for nothing, and if for no other reason than her safety and sanity, I thought it best for me to drive her up there, even if I really didn’t want to.

  I had never been known for landing any “Son of the Year” awards, but this was a different situation.

  And there was also August to think about. He could be a handful on a good day, and chances were this was not going to be a good day. He didn’t want to come home, and the last person he would want to see was our mother. To him, she was judge, jury, and executioner, shackling his legs and dragging him back to the prison of Anderson, California.

  “Yes, of course I’ll go with you,” I said calmly, yet wincing at the words as they came out of my mouth.

  Her tears subsided momentarily. “Oh, thank you so much, sweetie,” she managed to say, adding, “I want to leave before eight, so get a move on,” before hanging up.

  As I rolled out of bed and made my way groggily to the shower, I took a moment to think about what could happen in the day to come. My mother and I, though apparently doing better in our relationship than she and August, didn’t really get along too well. It wasn’t that we hated each other or even resented one another; it was simply awkward that I, according to her, had broken my father’s heart the day I’d moved out and abandoned their hopes and dreams of me one day running the parlor.

  It wasn’t like my leaving had ruined the company or anything. It was a mom and pop kind of business anyway, making most of its money from loyal families who had entrusted every dead relative to my father or grandfather in recent history. And, in my absence, Dad had forked up the cash to hire an intern, Arthur, an overly calm type of guy who seemed as if he would snap and murder everyone near him if only slightly provoked. But who was I kidding; he was good at his job and would eventually inherit Sennett Funeral Home. Or at least I hoped so.

  After my shower, which I admittedly stretched out as long as I could, I quickly dressed in a dark orange t-shirt and the closest pair of jeans I could find on the floor. I had never considered myself housekeeper material and usually didn’t even bother cleaning up after myself. However, it proved useful when I needed to find pants fast, like in this particular situation.

  Then, after snatching my car keys from the floor next to my bed, I was heading out the door and making my way over to my parent’s house. Little did I know, this would be the beginning of a series of events that would forever change my life.

  Chapter 2