by Winter Page
THE SUV finally lumbered into my driveway late the next night. The moon was obscured behind yet another line of approaching snow clouds. I breathed in the chilly night air. I had already dropped Clare off at her house after she assured me she was safe to go home and that she was okay. I parked the SUV in the garage, sliding stiffly from the front seat.
I left everything in the car, eager to just get inside. I toyed with my lips, the brush of her kiss still lingering on my mouth. A blush rose to my cheeks as thoughts of last night drifted lazily through my mind. Life was perfect. When I stepped through my back door, the house was exceptionally cold. I shivered but shrugged off my sweater nonetheless.
My head was in the clouds when I walked into the kitchen. There was a note taped to my kitchen counter. Curious, I picked it up.
Dear Raimi,
Your father and I took Zach to see my parents. Check your messages for updates on the trial. I love you, sweetheart, and I can’t wait to see your new tattoo!
Love,
Mom
Sometimes I wondered if my mom blamed herself for my being trans. She talked now and then about not spending enough time with me when I was little. I guess she was trying to make up for her mistakes with me by spending more time with Zach. Of course, my being trans had nothing to do with her. It was just the way I was born, and frankly, I was damned lucky she’d supported my transition.
The note crumpled as my fingers clutched into a fist. What was this about a trial? I reread the message several times, trying to understand what she had meant. I pulled out my phone to call her, but it was dead. Sighing, I plugged it in and went to watch some TV.
When I heard a knock at the door, I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t take into consideration that it was nearly one in the morning, and I didn’t think about what the word trial could even mean in reference to me. So I opened the door and found Brad standing there.
His eyes were maniacal and bloodshot. His pupils were familiarly dilated. When he smiled at me, there was blood running down his teeth from his gums. I didn’t even have time to scream as I leaped back from him. He raised a handgun and shot.
Twenty-Five
I STUMBLED and fell, the force of the bullet knocking me back. I clutched at my leg, blood starting to warm my fingers. Brad’s hand shook as he raised the gun to his mouth.
“No!” I screamed.
But he was too stoned or too lost inside his madness to hear me. I clenched my eyes shut as he pulled the trigger, ending his own life. He might have failed to end mine successfully, but he did not fail to end his. I shook with tears, still holding my leg. I crawled into the kitchen, trying to keep pressure on my leg. I scrabbled to the phone and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a woman said pleasantly into the phone.
“I… I got shot in the leg,” I stuttered, the adrenaline coursing through my body making it hard to speak.
“Is the shooter still there?” she asked tersely.
Without warning, I started sobbing. “N-no, he killed him-himself,” I wailed.
Dizziness pulled at the edge of my vision. The woman spoke in my ear, but I couldn’t hear her. All I could hear was the pounding in my ears. All I could see was the corpse lying in my front hallway.
An ambulance picked me up after what felt like years. The EMTs worked over me calmly as they loaded me into the back of the ambulance. I remember shivering and thanking them. But other than that, all of it was a salty, blood-colored blur.
Except for the smell. I will never forget what Brad’s blood smelled like, mixed with the gunpowder. Those are the things that stay with you.
Twenty-Six
FLORESCENT LIGHTS registered. Flickering, florescent lights. Those and scratchy sheets. My skin felt dry, and my toes itched. My fingers were numb, my first attempts at wiggling them getting me nowhere. A soft beeping sounded in my ear. There was an IV attached to the back of one of my hands.
I started to look beyond the ceiling and the bad lighting. White walls with purple trim. I sat up slowly in my hospital bed. As the blood returned to my hands, I felt someone holding one of them. I glanced to my left. Like déjà vu, my mom was there with coffee in her free hand.
“Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?” she murmured.
I smiled. She still carried lingering traces of a Spanish accent after visiting her parents. It was a familiar thing among the strangeness around me. I thought about her question. Whatever they were putting in my IV was taking the pain away from my leg. Physically, I was fine. But as the events that had brought me here began flooding through my mind, I was anything but fine. I was scared. I was worried. I was confused. And honestly, I was traumatized.
That’s not what my mom needed to hear, though.
“I’m fine. Can’t feel a thing,” I said confidently, if a little slurred.
She smiled sympathetically at me. “That’s good. The last effects of the anesthesia should wear off pretty soon. The doctors wanted to make sure that you would be under long enough to give them time to do anything necessary.”
I nodded. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. I could see his body, bloody and mangled where his face used to be, all over again. A little part of me wished I had kept my eyes open to watch him pull the trigger. The success of his suicide was sickly fascinating to me.
“Why did Brad kill himself?” I whispered. I wanted to be a child again. I wanted my mom to scoop me up in her arms and hold me tight until everything felt better.
Instead, I got a squeeze of the hand before she started to explain. I couldn’t meet her eyes as she did, so I stared at the ceiling again. It was safer than watching her lips move and tell the story of how someone died.
“He was high. On what, we don’t know. As you know, he was facing charges on several different counts. The police wouldn’t tell me the details, but somehow, he got possession of the gun and the drugs. They think he was trying to get back at Clare by killing you.”
I laughed hollowly. “Well, he didn’t do a very good job of it, did he?”
“Raimi! He might’ve been an awful person, but a death is a death.”
I nodded. I heard what she was saying. I agreed with it. I just didn’t want to deal with it. I was too tired. Without letting go of her hand, I drifted off into sleep. I was thankful for the reprieve.
I SLEPT for upward of three days, only waking when the occasional nurse appeared. Each time I woke up, there was a new bouquet. I asked the nurse who had sent them.
“From your friends at school,” she answered. It was obvious she was surprised I wouldn’t have known. I was too tired to question her any further. So instead, I just went back to sleep.
It was on the fourth day when Clare was finally allowed to see me. Our faces lit up when we saw one another. She was the person I had been waiting to come visit me.
“I’ve missed you, Rain,” Clare murmured tenderly, her arms wrapping around me for a light hug.
Her actions suggested she was convinced I would break at any moment, and she might have to glue me back together. Her smile didn’t reach far enough into her eyes to chase away the worry there.
I ran my thumb over her palm and whispered, “I’ve missed you too, Clare.”
She kissed me softly. I breathed in deeply, holding her close. “Are you okay?” I murmured. I watched as she pulled back and bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
I nodded sympathetically at her. “I get it.”
Clare nodded. We were quiet for a minute, taking each other in.
Then she murmured, “The weirdest part of this whole situation is how everyone at school has reacted. Brad might actually be the best thing that ever happened to the two of us. When the other kids heard that he shot you, this major outpouring of support happened.”
“Really?” I asked in wonder.
Claire nodded. “Brad would hate it. Everyone treats me like royalty. A lot of girls who got blackmailed by him have come out of
the woodwork to tell me what happened to them. It’ll be interesting to see who goes to his funeral.”
I didn’t say anything. I had thought about that already. I didn’t think there was any reason for me to go except if Clare went. And it didn’t sound like she had plans to attend.
A bird sang softly outside my window. Clare walked across the room and closed the door. She took something out of her pocket and smoothed it gently. It looked like a paper napkin. But it obviously meant a lot to Clare. She started reading.
“Dear Clare,
I’m sorry I put you through three years of torture. Nothing on earth gave me the right to do the things I did to you, or to anyone. There’s a little part of me that will always love you. I’ve loved you since we met sixteen years ago. You were the only girl I ever really loved. And I put you through hell.
I want to say the only reason I ever went near drugs, or drugged girls, was because of my brother. But that would be a lie. I did it because it made me feel powerful. I did it because it made me feel in control and safe, because girls were easy to dominate.
Here’s the truth, though. I kept you from coming out because you really were the only girl I ever loved. I kept you from coming out because I was jealous that you had the strength to do it. And the reason I’m taking a gun to Raimi’s house is because maybe, if I do this, it will make up for everything wrong I did to you.
If I hurt Raimi, I know you’ll hate me forever. But I’m doing it because I love you and because everyone else will see you two more clearly then. They’ll see you two as survivors, as victims, instead of evil, or as lesbians. You always said I had a clever brain and that I should just use it for good. Now, I finally am.
I want to give you one last secret. Killing myself is going to be the only protection I could ever give you. I’m doing this—”
Clare had to stop reading because she was crying too hard to continue. I tugged the napkin from her hand and read the rest aloud.
I’m doing this because I’m gay, too. I’m gay. It’s nice to finally say it. I’m sorry that I kept you in the closet with me for all those years.
But maybe now we can all be free.”
I looked up at Clare in shock as tears spilled out of my eyes. She just stared back at me, tears of her own running silently down her beautiful face.
We cried together for him, for the poor trapped soul he’d been. And we cried for ourselves and the pain he’d caused us. And then, finally, as we both ran out of tears to shed, we cried in love and gratitude that we were alive. And together. And free.
About the Author
WINTER PAGE is a freshman in high school. Born and raised in Texas, she has been an athlete her entire life—a figure skater, gymnast, competitive cheerleader, and belly dancer. She started writing after an injury forced her to stop sports. Her goal each year is to write something that makes her English teacher cry. She likes to listen to music, spend time with her friends, and of course, work on her latest novel.
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