by Carian Cole
CHAPTER 6
VANDAL
THE HEADSTONE IS like a work of art. Now that I’m standing in front of it, I can see why it took three months to fabricate. I think I should apologize to the guy who made it for yelling at him for taking too long. It’s a laser-etched scene of a field of flowers, with an image of Katie running, smiling, holding a teddy bear. The detail is absolutely amazing and worth every penny.
Every other Saturday, I visit her grave because every other Saturday was when I would get to see her. I’m just not ready to give up our time yet. I bring a teddy bear with me every time and now her grave is overrun with stuffed toys, as well as various little gifts that other family members must be leaving.
I climb up the huge oak tree that shades this part of the cemetery, get settled on a large, thick branch, and lean back against the trunk. I love the strength of the tree, and I like to think that it’s protecting my daughter. Every time I visit, I sit up here and just try to let the quiet seep into me. Maybe it’s morbid, but being here calms me and makes me feel grounded to the earth that holds my daughter. It’s the only place where I feel like I belong.
My legs begin to feel numb, so I turn to hang them over the branch when I see movement out of the corner of my eye, and slowly turn to see a girl kneeling down in front of a grave not too far away from my tree. This is the first time I’ve seen another visitor in the cemetery in all the times I’ve come to sit by Katie. From my perch, I can hear her talking softly to the headstone, placing fresh flowers over the newly-grown grass. Shit. I was hoping to leave, but I can’t jump out of a tree and scare the hell out of someone in the middle of a cemetery. I put in my ear buds and listen to some tunes as I wait her out, but my attention is soon drawn back to her when I hear her let out a wail like a wounded animal. I pull out my ear buds and squint in her direction. She’s kneeling, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth as she sobs uncontrollably. I lower my eyes away from her, knowing all too well what she’s feeling. Grief is an evil hungry monster that will eat you alive.
It’s almost dusk when the crier finally leaves and I can climb out of my tree. I walk by the grave she mourned over, and sick curiosity leads me to go read the headstone. Nick Bennett. Beloved husband and son. Twenty-seven years old. I’m about to walk off, but something stops me in my tracks. I turn back and stare at the date of death. It’s a date that will be engraved in my brain and my heart for the rest of my life because it’s the same date that Katie died.
An icy chill spreads through my veins as I stare at the date, and pieces of information slowly come back to me about the accident. I remember Lukas saying the other driver was young, and his wife was also in the car and got banged up pretty good.
I’m damn sure I’m standing on the grave of another person I may have killed. Just fucking great.
I take the long way home on my bike to try to clear my head of all the thoughts that are jangling around. I never asked for any details about the passengers in the other car, and I’m not even sure if their names were ever mentioned. It was hard enough to deal with the death of Katie, but now, seeing the other side of the accident is even more of a mind-fuck. I can’t get that girl’s wailing cries out of my head.
I’M NOT in the house for ten minutes when my doorbell rings. Putting my drink down, I go to the door, not hiding my annoyance as I open it.
“What now?” I demand as Evelyn walks past me, carrying a small pet carrier. I’m utterly confused as I watch her open the little door of the plastic cage.
“What the hell is this?” I ask as she thrusts a small furry animal against my chest.
“It’s a kitten.”
“What the hell is wrong with it?” I hold it away from me and stare at its tiny face. It’s squinting. A lot.
“He’s blind,” she replies simply.
I look closer at the small silver and white cat. “Blind? It has no fucking eyes, Evie.” I can’t even believe what I’m looking at.
“I know, Vandal. It was tortured as a tiny kitten by some asshole teenagers. He’s fine now, but his eyes had to be surgically removed after what was done to him. He’s all healed up now and ready for a home. He’s been in foster care for three months while he healed and learned how to adapt. He’s only about six months old.”
Tortured? Who the fuck tortures a kitten? I instinctively hold it closer to my chest and it begins to purr violently against me.
I stare at Evie, confused. “Why is it here?”
“You’re going to love it. But you’re going to have to actually show it that you love it. And ‘it’ has a name; meet Sterling.”
Shaking my head, I try to hand the kitten back to her. “No. No, no, and no. I can’t take care of a cat, Ev. I’ve never even owned a cat. Or a dog. Not even a fucking fish, or a plant.”
She flashes a sweet but feisty smile at me. “Well, now you’re the proud owner of a blind cat, and it’s non-negotiable. You need each other. You’re both fucked up. He can eat, drink, and use his litter box completely normally. Just put his stuff in a safe place, show him where it all is, and don’t move it.” She stops for a minute and stares at my leg. “Is that blood on your shorts?”
Fuck. I guess I didn’t grab clean shorts when I swapped my jeans for something more comfortable when I got home.
“I cut myself a few days ago,” I answer, not looking at her. I focus on the cat, gently rubbing its head, its purr vibrating against my palm.
“Doing what?”
I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Drop it.” My tone is no longer friendly. She cringes like a good girl and looks away. I can see her struggling with wanting to say something and knowing better than to poke the monster.
I hold the cat closer, who’s rubbing all over my face now, and watch as Evie steps outside the front door and then comes back dragging a large box of cat supplies and leaves it in my foyer.
She looks up at me and gives the cat a quick scratch on the head. “Trust me, Vandal. You’ll thank me for this.”
I gently put the kitten down on the floor and he promptly arches his little back and rubs against my ankles. “I don’t even like you,” I say to Evie. Which is a lie because I do kinda like her. I’ve slowly gotten used to the fact that even though she can be annoying as hell, she’s a good friend and her heart is in the right place, which is more than I can say about most people.
“I don’t care if you like me or not,” she replies, grinning. “Just like the cat. That’s all. Call or text me if you have any questions. If you have to go away or on tour, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of by either myself or a pet sitter. Make sure he has food and water all the time and don’t ever let him outside. Okay?”
“Uh . . . okay?” I can’t believe I’m letting her railroad me into being a pet owner.
“Great. Work your charm, Sterling,” she says to the cat, then turns and leaves me dumbfounded in the kitchen. I run my hands through my long hair and let out a deep breath. I really did not need this shit.
The best thing to do right now is ignore the cat and let it get used to the fact that it’s on its own. Life sucks, even for kittens, apparently. He’ll be safe and fed and that’s obviously better than what he’s used to, so he should just be grateful.
I head back into the living room to resume drinking, and the girl from the cemetery creeps into my mind, so I grab my laptop and do a web search for Nick Bennett, his obituary showing up right on the first page of the search results. Sipping my Jack Daniels, I scan the obituary for her name. Tabitha. I backspace and search for her name and find her social media page. Evidently, Tabitha’s not big on privacy because her entire profile is wide open for me to see all her status updates, photos, and friends. I hesitate for a moment before clicking on her profile photo, enlarging it to see blonde hair, tousled around huge, doe-like eyes that a man could easily get lost in. Those eyes are staring right into mine, and something inside me shifts. In her eyes, I see that rare childlike playfulness and sensuality that I’ve been hungering for longer than I
can remember, but never opened myself up enough to find. I curse the irony of seeing it in this woman that I’ve had a hand in destroying. Closing the photo, I scroll down her status updates. The most recent was two weeks ago.
I can’t do this. Nothing matters to me anymore. I want to go to sleep forever.
I nod in agreement at the screen. Yup. Been there. Still there.
Her post has twenty-four likes. Why the fuck would people like that? There are also a few replies from her friends, saying they’re there for her. I wonder how many of them really are there for her. My guess is not too fucking many.
I scroll down further to a post two weeks prior to that.
I miss you so much. Life is nothing without you :(
And a few days before that.
Fuck you, sun. Even you can’t brighten my day. The dark is my friend now.
And a day before.
I am consumed with pain and loneliness. Please don’t call me or tell me things will get better. I died in that car, too.
Yes. Her pain matches mine so perfectly, born together like twins.
And then there is a smattering of pre-tragedy posts.
Omfg this cookie is amazing #fatass #yum
Can’t wait for Nick to get home!
WTF why can’t I get pregnant??
Woohoo shopping spree with my bestie!
Where the hell do my socks go? Is there a portal in the washing machine?
Watching Revenge! #TeamAiden
A foreign smile spreads across my face as I scroll through her silly and mostly random posts. There are a lot of pictures of her, and him, and them together. All smiles. The perfect, good-looking young couple. I click on another album and it’s filled with pictures of butterflies, birds, squirrels, and flowers, and a few of her out in the woods wearing a vintage dress, lying in the leaves, and a few other girls, presumably her friends, in the same setting. It appears to be some kind of themed shoot. Photography and modeling must be some of her hobbies. She has an odd beauty about her that is a mix of cute and sexy with a side of shy innocence. She’s petite, maybe five feet, judging from the photos. She possesses the look and aura that my dark side craves to have under me, but I’ve always refused to let myself give in to. Instead, I stick to the loud, outgoing, trashy girls because they make me feel absolutely nothing.
I check my own social media page and there is the usual stuff from fans, mostly chicks, a bunch of them wearing the T-shirts that went on sale a few months ago that say “Get Vandalized” on them, the black fabric spread tight across their huge, probably fake, tits. There is nothing about the accident. Sooner or later, someone will start talking about it, or it will be leaked, and I don’t even want to know what I will have to deal with then.
I click back over to Tabitha’s page, and a strange noise interrupts my continued status stalkfest. Putting the laptop down, I follow the noise, right to the kitchen where the kitten is sitting exactly where I left him—what, an hour ago? Shit. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill Evie.
Kneeling down, I pet the tiny cat on the head and he leans into my hand. His silvery gray fur feels plush and soft, like a rabbit.
“Okay, little dude, let’s get your act together.” I pick him up and hold him as I put his food dishes in the kitchen and his litter-box in the mudroom. I set him down in front of each of his things and let him sniff it all, hoping he’ll remember where it all is. The last thing I need is a blind kitten destroying my house. I watch him in strange fascination as he navigates around the kitchen, head slightly tilted, as if he’s memorizing every step, every smell. He makes his way back to me and rubs on my legs triumphantly. Hmm. Sterling seems to overcome his obstacles. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here.
The rest of my night is spent going through all of Tabitha’s posts and photos from the most recent to when she opened her social media account four years ago. My newfound obsession with learning about her is a welcome distraction from my usual nightly rituals of self-desecration. A little digging tells me that she quit her job a few weeks ago, and I can tell by her posts since the accident that she’s pulling away from her friends and family. A few people have posted on her page, asking where she has been, saying they miss her at work, telling her she should call. She doesn’t reply to any of these messages. This girl went from being obviously happy, goofy, and very much in love with life and her husband, to a hater of anything remotely happy. She thinks life betrayed her, but it’s actually just the work of some asshole who made a bad decision that in turn destroyed her life.
The ties that bind us each to one another may not always be visible, but they’re there like thin, transparent veins. I don’t know why, but this is one vein I don’t want to slit.
CHAPTER 7
VANDAL
EVERY MORNING for the past two weeks, I’ve woken up with this vibrating cat either on my chest or curled at my side. Even though he can’t see, he’s watching me all the time. He follows me from room to room like a furry shadow and sits close to me, sometimes resting with his paw on my leg, or his head leaning against me. He craves closeness, and I let him have it. Somehow he’s crept over my walls.
Katie would have loved Sterling. Sometimes when he’s playing with a toy—yes, he plays, don’t ask me how—or does something unexpected, I catch myself laughing and can almost hear her giggle echoing around me. I’ve never been one to think about the afterlife, but lately I wonder if maybe she’s watching over me.
And not only that, but this house is haunting me with memories of Katie, and I feel as if I’m going mad most of the time. A few days ago, Lukas suggested I get out of here for a while and go up to the small house I have on the lake that Gram talked me into buying two years ago, claiming we all needed a place to “get away sometimes.” At first, I’d told her she was fucking crazy. I’d never owned a house in my life—the thought of having two seemed insane to me, and a severe waste of money. I hardly even lived in any houses growing up, being bounced from foster home to foster home until I said “fuck it” when I was sixteen, and then lived on the streets or with friends who were much older than me. I went from sleeping on ratty couches to living in a shitty apartment to owning two houses. Not bad for a tatted-up white boy with long hair.
I call Lukas. “I’m gonna go to the lake for a month. So don’t freak the fuck out if you stop by my house down here and I’m not around, okay?” Leaning the phone against my shoulder, I fill the cat’s dish, which is empty again. How much does one cat eat?
“Try to get off the shit while you’re there,” he suggests. “I was thinking, why don’t you come back to the shop in about a month? The clients miss you, and I could use the help. I was gonna hire someone else, but I’d rather you were back here.”
“Lukas, I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I say, watching the cat playing hockey with a ping pong ball.
He continues babbling. “Just hear me out, Van. Even if just for a few months and you go back to playing with A&E, I think it would be good if you were back in the shop for a while. You know, to get out of the house and be around people.”
“I don’t like people.”
“Van, I know . . . but you’re an amazing tattooist. Don’t just sit around and rot because you’re not playing. You’re fuckin’ sick at both, so don’t give ‘em up. You can’t be tattooing people wasted though.”
“I’m not fucking stupid. I know that. I’ve been doing this shit way longer than you have—”
“Man, calm the hell down. I had to say it, all right? It’s my name on the line here, too. We’re partners. This shop is my life, and I can’t afford to let anything screw it up.”
I start to pace around the living room, annoyed that everyone thinks I’m going to screw up his or her life, or band, or ink shop. Not that they’re wrong, but I’m sick to death of hearing it.
I know Lukas is right though. I gotta do something. I’m just not ready yet. Jabbing tiny needles into people all day actually might make me feel better. Pretending it doesn't hurt them but kn
owing it really does, and watching the tiny blood bubbles erupt from the flesh. Yeah, I could get into that again.
“I’ll call you,” I say after a few moments. “I think you’re right though. I do miss it. Who the hell knows if Ash will let me back in the band? Lemme chill for a few weeks and get my head together, and then I’ll come back and see how it goes.”
“Sounds good, bro. Call if you need anything.”
I end the call, still thinking about going back to work at our tattoo shop.
I make another call, this time to Evie.
“Hello?” She answers on the second ring.
“It’s me.”
“Me, who?”
I roll my eyes because I know this bitch recognizes my voice and just likes to taunt me.
"Fucking me."
"That’s an interesting way to announce yourself."
"I need a favor. I'm going to the lake for a few weeks. I think I need to get out of the house and the memories here, like everyone keeps saying. It’s making me fucking crazy being here.”
"I think that’s a good idea, Vandal. A change of scenery is good.”
"I'm not going up ’til late Saturday afternoon. Can you maybe go up there Saturday morning and clean it, make sure nothing is lying around? You know, like any toys or any of her stuff . . ."
“Of course. I'll bring some food up, too. If any of Katie's things are there, I'll put them in a box in the basement. No worries."
"I'm going to take my bike up, so could you maybe take the fucking cat up there for me?"
“You love the fucking cat, don't you?" she teases.
“Yeah, I guess I fucking do. His carrier is in the hall closet. Maybe buy him stuff to keep at the lake? Like a litter box and food dish and all that stuff? So he has things in both places.” I wonder what else would keep him busy? “Get him one of those carpeted cat condo things, too. I don’t want him scratching the hell out of my furniture. I’ll give you some cash when I see you.” The kitten jumps on my lap and I pet him absently as he does happy paws on my leg. “He'll be okay in a new place for a few weeks? And you'll come drive him home when I'm ready to come back?" I ask her.