by Amy Cross
This time, thankfully, she doesn't follow me. By the time I get to the street corner and glance back, there's no sign of her, and I let out an actual sigh of relief as I realize that I've managed to drop her. I have no idea what compelled her to reach out to me like that, but I guess maybe she just felt sorry for me. I don't need anyone's pity, and I sure as hell don't want to become a magnet for every wannabe-edge kid in town. Maybe my anticipation of tonight is making me more bitchy than usual, but I feel like I'm just about ready to explode.
Once I've made double-sure that Hannah isn't anywhere around, I turn and head home. With every step, I know I'm getting closer to the moment when I have to make a decision. By the time I reach the house, however, I already know what that decision is going to be.
I have to go.
Even if it messes my head up permanently, I have to go tonight. Deep down, I think I've known that all along.
Chapter Five
Reaching into my pocket as I wait at the bus stop, I pull out my change and count it again, just to make absolutely certain that I have enough. I must have counted it twenty times since I left the house after dinner, but I figure it's a good way to clear my head. It's late, and the whole town seems subdued tonight, as if everyone's holding their breath.
“You getting on or not?” asks the driver.
Looking up, I see that he's waiting impatiently.
“Yeah,” I tell him, making my way up the steps. “Just out to Cotton Road.”
“Huh.” He eyes me with a hint of disapproval. “That's a busy stop tonight. Kind of morbid, if you ask me.”
Checking my watch, I see that it's a little after 9pm. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Morbid.”
As I take a seat, I glance around and see that there are several other people making the same journey. One of them is tapping excitedly at his phone, and I recognize him as a guy from school who thinks he's this big-shot citizen journalist. A little further back, there's a woman whose daughter was paralyzed in the shooting, and when she glances at me I can see the anger in her eyes still. I quickly turn away, in case she decides to say something to me.
The bus pulls away and I realize I'm going to regret going tonight. But I think I'd regret not going more.
***
Twenty minutes later, when I step down from the bus, I see that the driver was right. I mean, I knew there'd be a crowd, but there must be at least a hundred people standing on the grass opposite the prison's tall, dark gates. Some of them are carrying banners protesting against the death penalty, while others have signs with biblical quotes and messages about redemption, and there are even some banners that call my brother out for being in league with Satan. Quite a few people are holding candles, and at the very edge of the street there are even a couple of crews from the local news.
As the bus drives away, I suddenly feel as if it was a mistake to come out here.
“Stop state-sanctioned murder!” a woman shouts nearby as I force myself to head through the crowd. “Not in our name! Ban the death penalty!”
“He's getting what's coming to him,” a man mutters darkly, his face lit by the flickering light of a candle. “Why should we pay to keep him alive for the rest of his miserable life?”
“Hey!” a woman says suddenly, grabbing my arm.
I turn to her, terrified that – despite the hat I'm wearing and my attempt to change my look – I might have been recognized. The last thing I need is for anyone here to realize that I'm Malcolm's sister.
“You're a little young to be out here, aren't you?” she asks, with a hint of concern in her eyes. “Are you alone?”
“I just wanted to see,” I reply, pulling free from her grip.
“Which side are you on?”
“Side?” Pausing, I realize what she means. “I'm not on any side,” I tell her. “I just came down because I wanted to...” My voice trails off, but I honestly don't know how to finish that sentence. I guess I should have thought up a better cover story on the way here.
“Are you a blogger?” she asks with a frown.
I shake my head.
“There's a lot of them about,” she continues. “Seems like everyone thinks they can be a goddamn journalist these days. You've got the news folk, of course, but they're outnumbered a hundred to one by all the assholes who came so they can live-stream the event. If you ask me, there's something wrong with human beings these days.”
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I realize that I recognize this woman. I think she's a substitute teacher who's been at my school a few times.
“I'm sorry,” I stammer, “I really just came to watch.”
Forcing a smile, I slip away, threading my way through the crowd until I reach a patch of unoccupied grass almost directly opposite the prison's main gate. Nearby, a middle-aged man and woman are slumped in fold-out chairs, eating sandwiches and sipping from beer-cans. It's almost as if they came down here to be entertained.
“Tonight, though,” says a reporter standing nearby, speaking into a camera, “most of the country's attention is turned here, to the prison where, in just under two hours' time, Malcolm Bromley will be put to death for his part in the massacre that killed fifteen students and three teachers at Dayler Martin High School. That's assuming, of course, that last-minute appeals filed by various civil rights groups are unsuccessful. A source close to the situation told me exclusively, however, that the governor is not planning to intervene, and that Bromley himself is not involved with any of the attempts to obtain a stay of execution. In other words, Peter, tonight's execution is almost certain to go ahead as scheduled.”
“Some critics say that the state's governor has rushed the process,” another reporter says into a different camera, “and that due process hasn't been carried out, all so that the execution can go ahead before next month's key polling. Others, however, argue that since Malcolm Bromley isn't seeking to challenge the verdict, there's really no reason to wait any longer.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the folded-up piece of paper I used earlier to jot down the order in which things will happen. After checking my watch again, I realize that right about now Malcolm is probably sitting alone in his cell, waiting to be taken to a different waiting area. He should have had his last meal by now. I bet he asked for bacon and eggs. That was always his favorite.
Glancing toward the dark prison buildings, I realize I have no idea which of them might be the one where my brother is being held right now, but I swear I can sense him in there somewhere. I know that's most likely just my mind being totally irrational, but I can't help wondering whether in some way he knows that I'm out here. My mother refused point-blank to go and visit him, and I wasn't allowed to go without her. I thought about trying to call him, but I doubt he'd have accepted and anyway, I don't have much to say. I just feel like I have to be here, because if I was anywhere else right now, I'd be losing my mind.
As the next couple of hours pass, I sit on the grass and keep track of the itinerary. I'm pretty sure I know roughly when Malcolm is offered the chance to meet with a priest, and the moment when he's led to the waiting room. I try to imagine what it must be like for him right now, what he must be thinking, but my thoughts are interrupted when suddenly a few nearby protestors start singing hymns. Their voices immediately set me on edge, but I force myself to button down and stay calm.
I've been letting my anger get out of control lately.
After tonight, I need to work on not being a bitch.
Checking my watch again, I see that it's now just five minutes before midnight, which means Malcolm is most likely in the execution chamber, strapped to a table with needles being put in place. I've read so much lately about the experiences of other executed prisoners, about how their final moments went down, but right now none of that information really helps. My chest feels impossibly tight, and there's a part of me that wants to get to my feet and race into the prison, to scream at them until they stop what they're doing to him. At the same time, I know that I can't do
anything, that I'm just another observer. All around me, the crowd is starting to move forward, although police officers are making them stay on this side of the road. Finally I get to my feet and stumble down the grassy embankment until I reach the front of the crowd.
And then, with tears in my eyes, I wait. My heart is pounding, but I know there's nothing I can do. I'm freezing cold, and when I look around at the other people in the crowd I see that they're all wearing thick jackets, whereas in my daze I came out here wearing my old, worn coat. Taking a deep breath, I turn toward the prison and see lights in some of the windows. This is the place where my brother is being executed, but it looks so mundane and ordinary.
I check my watch every few seconds, until finally there's less than a minute to go. Staring at the hand as it ticks around, I feel as if my body has become impossibly light, and when midnight finally arrives I find myself imagining the chemicals being pumped into my brother's body. Is he fighting back? Is he screaming? Is he calm? Has he repented for what he did, or does he still believe he was right? Nearby, some people in the crowd around me are singing more hymns, and I feel a wave of sorrow pass through my body as I realize that at this very moment my brother is finally been executed, just a few years after he and Jonathan Wilder went into the school with their stolen guns raised.
“Hey, dumb-ass,” I remember him saying to me once, years ago, as I sat playing with dolls on the bedroom floor. “Having fun down there?”
His smile.
I remember his smile.
I also remember how he used to walk straight through my dolls, knocking them with his feet.
“Sorry,” he'd always say.
“Why are you so mean?” I remember asking him one day.
“I'm not mean.”
“Don't you like me?”
“That's a dumb question, Bonnie.”
I was too young to really have any deep conversations with him, but I thought he was so cool. I wanted to be like him one day, and to be his friend. I must have been out of my mind.
In a daze, I don't notice at first as a figure emerges from the prison's gate, flanked by two officers. They stop on the other side of the road, next to a microphone stand, with more police keeping the crowd back. I feel as if I'm about to faint, but somehow I manage to stay standing, although it takes a moment before I can focus on the words that are being read out.
“- can confirm, therefore, that the execution of Malcolm Bromley was carried out in full just a few minutes ago, in accordance with the sentence handed down by the court. The prisoner made no final statement, and his body is now being transferred for processing so that it can be transported by ambulance to -”
The man says some more words, but I let them wash over me as I stare at the dark buildings and realize that somewhere in there, my brother's dead body is most likely being wheeled along a corridor. Looking up at the stars above, I briefly catch myself wondering whether he's up there now, but I quickly remind myself that this is no time to get maudlin or romantic. He's just dead, that's all, and his soul – whatever that word means – is now gone, lost to the mists of time, never to return in any form. I wish I could believe in life after death, or in ghosts, but somehow I've always felt this brick-heavy certainty in my chest, telling me that there's nothing to come after this life.
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I turn to walk away.
And then I see her.
A little further back, Hannah is standing alone. We make eye contact, and I feel an immediate rush of anger as I realize that I was right earlier. Obviously she is some kind of groupie, out to vicariously experience the thrill of this whole macabre mess. Unable to hold back, I pull my hands from my pockets and stomp toward her.
“Hey,” she says with a smile as I get closer, “how -”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I shout, shoving her in the chest. She stumbles back and lands on her ass as I tower over her.
“Listen,” she stammers, “I think you should -”
“Don't tell me what to do,” I sneer. For a moment, I feel as if all my anger is directed at this dumb idiot, and I can't hold back, even though I know I'll regret my outburst later. I really, really need to get it out. “Are you enjoying this?” I ask. “Did you get a little tingle out tonight, soaking up the atmosphere and listening to all the shouts and sobbing?”
“No, I -”
“People like you make me sick!” I hiss. “This isn't some kind of theatrical event! You're not supposed to enjoy it!”
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” she asks. “Please? It's important.”
“I don't want to be your friend!” I shout. Aware that a few other people are staring now, I force myself to lower my voice. “I don't want to be anyone's friend,” I add, taking a step back. “Whatever sick pleasure you experienced from all of this, that's your problem, but I don't want anything to do with it. Leave me alone, or I swear to God...”
My voice trails off. I can see the shock in her eyes, but I can also feel my anger starting to gnaw at my guts. I thought shouting at her would help, but if anything I'm starting to feel worse, as if there's an actual, physical pain clawing its way up through my chest.
“Oh my God,” a voice whispers nearby, “is that... I think that's his sister!”
Turning, I see that I've attracted some attention.
“Bonnie,” Hannah says after a moment, still down on the grass, “please, let me explain and -”
“Go to hell,” I mutter, pulling my hood up to cover as much of my face as possible, as I turn and hurry away. I can hear Hannah still calling after me, but I don't look back, and finally I reach the road and hurry over to the darker side. Glancing back, I see to my relief that no-one is following me, but I still pick up the pace, determined to get the hell out of here.
It's too late for me to catch a bus into town now, but I always knew that I'd end up having to walk. The night air is colder than I'd anticipated, but as cars start driving past me I can't help feeling that the walk will be a good opportunity to get my head straight. When a woman slows and offers me a ride, I tell her that I'm fine, and I just smile politely when she offers again. Finally she speeds away, and a little while later I finally find myself all alone on the road, with the lights of town up ahead. I look over my shoulder a few times, but thankfully that dumb Hannah girl seems to have understood that I don't want anything to do with her.
A few minutes after that, an ambulance drives past at no great speed, and I realize that it must be carrying Malcolm's body to the local hospital, or a morgue in town.
“Goodbye,” I whisper, stopping and watching as the ambulance disappears into the distance. I wait until its lights are gone, and then I sit down at the side of the road and do the one thing I swore I wouldn't do tonight.
I burst into tears, and my whole body starts shaking violently as I bury my face in my hands and start sobbing.
***
By the time I reach the edge of town, it's 5am and I'm in something of a daze. I should keep to dark side-streets, but I figure Adam and his friends won't be out right now and – even if they are – I don't feel much like hiding. I don't know how I expected to react once the execution was over, but I'm surprised by just how blank and empty I feel now that the tears have passed. I no longer want to scream or cry, or shout with rage. I just want to keep walking and never have to talk to anyone ever again.
Maybe I should become a hermit, or a nun.
Anything that involves not being around people.
There's a figure up ahead, someone sitting at the side of the road. I slow my pace, worried that there might be trouble, but after a moment I realize that the figure's silhouette seems a little familiar, almost as if...
I stop and wait.
Malcolm.
It looks like Malcolm.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that of course it's not Malcolm. He's only been dead for a few hours, so it's a little early to start hysterically believe in ghosts. Forcing myself to start walking again
, I can feel my heart pounding as I get closer to the dark figure, but finally I see to my relief that it's just a homeless guy sleeping on a bench at the bus stop. He doesn't wake up as I walk past.
Ghosts don't exist.
My brother is not coming back.
Eventually I get home and head to the front door. This is kind of the last place I want to be right now, but at the same time I don't have a choice. To my relief, however, I see that the house hasn't been tagged tonight, and miraculously the car hasn't had its tires slashed. I guess maybe, just maybe, Malcolm's execution means that people will leave us alone until we eventually get out of town. That's been my hope for a while now, and I suppose there's still a chance, although that Hannah girl has been a useful reminder of just how insane some people can be.
I know I was harsh earlier, and I wish I hadn't gotten so angry at her.
I just hate vultures.
Inside, the house is dark and quiet. Mom isn't on the sofa, which means she must have woken at some point and drunkenly slouched to bed. I head through to the kitchen and make a sandwich, and then I wander to my room. I have to be up for school in about two hours' time, so there's no real point trying to sleep. Passing the door to Malcolm's room, I glance at the handle and tell myself that some day soon I have to actually go in there and take a look around. Not right now, though. Right now I feel like I need to wait until my brain resets and all this madness has passed. In fact, once I'm in my room and see the cardboard taped over the broken window, I can't shake the feeling that I'm in something of a trance. I sit on the edge of the bed and start eating my sandwich, although to be honest I'm not hungry.