by A.R. Rivera
Sifting the ashes. This is what I’m working on as the knob of the front door slowly turns from the inside, peeking out on the front yard that’s been cordoned off with yellow tape.
She isn’t out there. An ambulance took her away several hours ago. Police followed the second ambulance with the driver to the hospital, but there are still a few uniforms out front scattered amongst the nosey neighbors. Across the street at Mr. Smith’s house, they’re waiting for me.
I slipped inside my dad’s place—I don’t know why—and no one noticed. I guess I figured it was a safe place to sit and listen. I heard my young counterpart tell a cop that he saw me storm up the road after I strangled the driver. He told them everything—my name, where I was staying, about the fight with Dylan—everything they wanted to know and more.
I really hate myself.
At least I slept with my clothes on. My iPod and phone are in the other house, along with my only other set of clothes, probably confiscated as evidence by now. The scant bit of cash I have left in the world is in my pocket.
The place is probably being dusted for prints as we speak. Of course, they’ll have a matching set at the precinct. They will know exactly who I am. I’m sure no time will be wasted informing the grieving family of the trouble I had before I showed up in their back yard. They may be returning from the hospital soon, so I have to work fast.
Before my mother decided she would be better off without us she had a nervous breakdown. She went into a treatment facility somewhere in Arizona and I remember that her writing case was one of the few things she took with her. While she was there she managed to write at least one letter.
It’s still here, up on the high shelf over the VCR. I open the elegant wooden box filled with pale colored stationary and take out the matching pen. A piece of light pink paper with cheerful butterflies should suffice.
Folded onto the sofa, I lean over the coffee table anxious to deliver the message I have no idea how to phrase. What life-changing words might suffice? I’ve purposely avoided thinking about things like this. To shoot the verbal arrow straight through her depressed heart requires eloquence, poignancy, and sincerity. I’ve never been good at any of those things and don’t see how I could start now. Angry, selfish, useless—that’s me on a daily basis. It might be easier if I weren’t on the verge of throttling her for what she’s about to do.
“That’s it,” I lean down and scribble the words:
Whatever you are thinking of doing, DON’T do it. They need you. So stay.
Maybe less is more?
Setting the folded note back into the box, I find a paper wedged against the inside. A picture slips out when I pull. A photo of the three of us; me, my mom, and my sister staring at a silly face my dad was making when he took this picture. It was the day he finished the swing set. Practically a monumental occasion. Carrie is sitting on her new swing with that huge grin of hers, the one that showed all her teeth, top and bottom. Right behind, with an outstretched hand is her mother, ever faithful, looking down lovingly at the embodiment of her heart and soul. I stand behind them both—the only one who isn’t smiling. My throat and chest swell at the idea of putting the picture back. The letter gets dropped in the box. The picture goes in my pocket.
Inside my dad’s room, I plan to leave a messy scrawl of a note that looks like it was written in a hurry. Something to help him get on his way and hopefully keep what remains of the family intact. I know what I’m going to write. He’s gave me the idea with all his allusions to a nameless threat.
He’s already here. I’ve done all I can to help. Go back to the place I met you before. I’ll find you there again if I need to – G
“That ought to do the trick,” I say, adding a slight crumple to the lined notebook paper before dropping it into the top dresser drawer.
He will see it soon enough and they will leave this place. Whoever he is, he scares the piss out of this version of my dad. I have no doubt he’ll pack up and leave. The distance from this place should help my mother cope.
Inside little G’s closet, I dig around until another backpack surfaces and empty it out, then fill it with a few changes of clothes from my dad’s dresser—a couple of plain t-shirts, a pair of socks and a pair of pants even though they look too big.
I upset a few sofa cushions and toss some laundry around for good measure, making sure the largest mess is inside my parents’ bedroom. When the coast is clear enough, I slip out the back door, leaving it slightly open. If I remember correctly, my dad was the first one home that day and this act, aimed at raising his level of suspicion, should be enough to put the fear into him.
Up and over the wall I climb, land inside the back lot that sparked the flame which lit the fuse that destroyed everything.
Angel Of Death