Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, Stacey, won’t we?” Early says. It’s the last voice I hear before the car engine starts. The car ride goes like this: pass out, hit a bump, wake up, sheer agony, repeat.

  Chapter Forty-six

  A creak of the trunk. An onslaught of sunlight. I’m lugged out, still tied up, fully hungover from my heroin withdrawal, woozy, and positive that I have a concussion.

  “Where’s Stacey?” I ask.

  Leo answers me with a grunt. I’m being dragged to a clearing in the woods with giant pines on all sides. Smack in the middle of the clearing is a run-down, small, two-story farmhouse with white paint peeling off in ribbons. Moss grows on the roof, and one of the front windows is sealed off with plywood, its blue shutters askew. Leo continues to pull me closer to the house, until I see Early, Stacey, and Charles (and no Dan) standing before a grave that abuts the side of the house where a birch tree stands crooked yet tall. They are awestruck, as am I, once I see the flowers encircling several tombstones and the immediate area, snaking up the side of the house in vines that fork and travel their way to the roof. Indigo. I’ve never seen so much of it before, even in the crypt, and in the sunlight its blue is sublime and three-dimensional, and if a color could walk and talk, this one would fly. Billy must be taking good care of them. We are frozen in church-worthy silence, stupefied and dismantled from the miraculous sight.

  It’s Early who breaks the stillness. “Let’s start,” he says, turning to me. I dart my eyes quickly at Stacey, then back to Early. They untie my hands, and then train their guns on me. I take stock around me—there’s no place to go anyway. East Bumblefuck is where we are.

  “We’re going to need bags. Garbage bags, given the amount of it,” I say. Early nods, beaming with satisfaction and joy. Stacey’s wrists are no longer tied, yet Charles has his fingers tight around her upper arm, so she might as well be. She pipes up.

  “I know where the garbage bags are,” she says. Early nods and Stacey and Charles disappear through the front door. I wonder if Billy is there, and if Stacey is going to warn him. I know something is going to happen. Probably something not good.

  Early pats me on the back.

  “Good show,” he says. “I knew that you were going to be useful.” It isn’t lost on me that he’s using past tense.

  A few moments later, I hear Stacey scream. I don’t care that Leo has a gun at my head, I run. This is Stacey we’re talking about. Inside, she’s hunched over a body on a couch—a body of a guy with a scar, just a guy like me—sobbing hysterically. She’s slapping his face, squeezing his sides, trying to awaken him even though it’s clear it’s way too late for that. Needles and other drug paraphernalia are scattered across a coffee table, and a thick belt is still tight around his arm. I don’t need to look closer to know that this is Billy. We can all smell that he’s been dead for a little while now. I place the back of my hand up to my mouth and look away, my stomach clenching from Stacey’s sorrow and the foul odor.

  Charles is about to pull her away from the couch when Early says from the doorway, “Let her mourn in peace.”

  Leo, who had followed me in, now starts rummaging around in the small, open kitchen for garbage bags. It doesn’t take long for him to locate a box of them. Stacey moans, placing her cheek on Billy’s shoulder, arms limp at her sides. He’s a tall lanky kid, wearing Converse sneakers and a black zip-up hoodie. His scar is much more severe than mine, though with the same texture of puckered skin and pearly shininess.

  I can’t look at the body of someone who could easily be me any longer and I turn around. The open room is sparsely furnished and surprisingly tidy, and the windows are all decorated with the same sheer white curtains. A small, hand-woven rug is underneath the coffee table, its multi-colored pattern dizzying. Billy lived here and here was cozy. I wonder if he thought so. I wonder if he even noticed at all. I have a momentary memory of myself waking up in the woods next to the crypt, a pile of vomit at my side, one crow, soon to be a murder, waiting for my ending.

  Leo clamps his hand on my wrist and says, “Come along now. We’ve got work to do.”

  -----

  Leo and I take garbage bags and begin. I tenderly touch each petal, watching it disintegrate into the plastic, as Leo massacres a batch of it, not understanding the meaning of delicate. Early watches the abomination and wobbles toward us, yelling at him to stop. I still hear Stacey. She is outside now, weeping. For the next twenty minutes or so, I harvest by myself quietly, with Leo guarding me, Charles guarding Stacey’s distress, and Early standing in the shade observing us all. I see a break in the trees, and in the distance there are fences in disrepair and a crumbling foundation that could have been a barn. My mind is racing, trying to devise a plan. But I can’t. Thirsty. Hot. Headache. Almost passing out. Up close, the indigo petals shimmer, or maybe that’s my vision blurring in the blazing brightness of the morning.

  Think, Finn, think. I’m throwing quick glances at the gravestones, I spy a name etched out in granite, it starts with a K. These are the Klaskis. I bet they never knew they were going to cause such a mess.

  There is only one thing that I can think to do. It is outrageous. And it terrifies me just as much as the men who hover over us. I had told myself never again, because going back is a form of torture, it is all-encompassing suffering. After the last time I snorted indigo, the memory lingered for days, and my palms still tingled from the shards of plastic and metal from what could have been Faith’s sunglasses. I’m shuddering at the thought and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “What’s his deal?” Charles asks, pointing at me. “He looks like he’s going to piss himself.”

  I wave him off. “I’m fine. Think I have a concussion, that’s all.”

  Leo chuckles at that, proud that he delivered the blow to my forehead. I wish I had never been introduced to indigo, I wish I wasn’t such a greedy, cocky good-for-nothing bastard whose eyes are forever bigger than his stomach.

  There is a one in a million chance this could work, but what other choice do I have? How real was the Gatorade on Bryce’s skin and the sand in Rory’s palm? I think that a trip would bring me back to a bad memory, and I think my bad memories could supply me with something to use against them, possibly a weapon. Without analyzing the consequences too much, because I never really do, I take a handful of indigo powder, bring it up to my nose and huff it so hard I lurch backward.

  “What the—” I hear Leo say.

  I’m plummeting, falling, sinking . . . it feels different this time, disastrous, heart-stopping, and the regret, oh the weight of it . . .

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The concrete around our trailer is scorching hot. My feet are bare, a magnifying glass is in my hand, and Amazing Facts about Ants is on the ground next to me. Mom’s inside drinking red wine before lunch, but I’m too young to understand that this isn’t normal. I’m eleven years old and beginning to recognize other things, however, like the squishy feeling I get when I see Rose Madison and her unkempt blonde curls, or the anxiousness I experience when Pop is listening to Led Zeppelin too loud. Lately I react to the sound of ice tinkling against glass and the slamming door. But at least there’s the front yard, visible from the other trailers, where I feel safest—besides when I’m not at home.

  Though I think ants are cool—and boy, do I know a lot about them, let me tell you—I’ve just discovered what a magnifying glass and direct sunlight can accomplish. That pinpoint of illumination I fix upon the ant’s back, poor sucker, bull’s-eye, here we go, it takes no time at all to make life stop. The morbid curiosity fuels me, I’m supersaturated with fascination, I can’t stop. At this stage in my life, I know the word addiction, and I think I might have it. I’ve heard people call Pop an alcoholic, I’ve heard Mom’s name paired with “pill popper,” and that’s okay I think, because Rose’s mom is a “whore,” and Peter’s dad is a “womanizer.” I wonder what I am. Murderer of ants. The Formica butcher.

 
It’s the big carpenter ants that are the best to kill, because you can see the smoke trailing off them, and one time, there was a split-second spark, and then drop dead Fred. I feel a mixture of remorse and sadness, but the excitement of it wins over both. I don’t consider myself a serial killer or anything, I’m not into chopping up cats and dogs, but this is something I’m not going to go bragging about to my friends. Or Faith.

  I’m so mesmerized by my experimentation that I don’t hear Pop pulling up and getting out of his truck. Dust puffs up and a shadow falls on me. I whip around to face him.

  “What the fuck you doing?” His voice is lethal, and I smell his alcohol breath from here. There’s something else too—he’s got that look in his eye and slackening of expression that tells me he hasn’t just been drinking booze. He’s standing above me, hands on his hips—a newly appointed sheriff stance. It’s not like him to start bullying me in the afternoon; he usually saves that for the night hours. I toss the magnifying glass aside, too late for him not to notice, and snatch up my ants book, a shield against my chest.

  “I—I . . .”

  “You what? Huh?” he says, slapping me on my forearm. “I—I . . .” He’s mocking me. Always mocking me. Am I really this lame? Maybe I am. I’m still a runt at this age, limbs skinny as twigs, floppy hair. A special brand of dorkhood that the strong love to attack, and my pop, he’s a big dude, over six feet, lifts weights with his buddies after work. Then drinks. Plays cards. Doesn’t come home until late when Mom is passed out on the couch.

  “I’m going inside,” I say, but Pop signals me to stay where I am.

  “Frying ants, are you?” I’m taken aback because his voice sounds soft now, kind of nice. I nod, silent with confusion. “Is that what’s going on here?”

  “It’s cool,” I say, hugging my book closer to me.

  Pop plops himself down on the steps next to me, the magnifying glass between his hands—didn’t see him pick it up. Yesterday he watched cartoons with me and laughed. He’s been nicer lately, after Faith’s accident. I didn’t even know he liked cartoons.

  “I used to do this when I was your age, believe it or not.” He brings the glass up to his eye, then breathes on it, rubs off the smudges on his yellow shirt. Hands it over to me.

  “You did?” I ask. The magnifying glass is warm—from the ants, from my father’s handling, from the high June sun. I never took note of his thinning hair and reflective, exposed scalp until now, when I have an impulsive, horrendous thought of shining the magnifying glass upon him. Would his remaining hair light up in flames? Or would his skin start smoking first?

  “Yep, I sure did,” he says, leaning back, fishing out a cigarette pack from one pocket, Zippo lighter in the other. The smoke curls between us in a matter of seconds; he takes a contemplative pull, furrowing his brow. I never really had a full conversation with Pop before. We juggle around questions and one-word answers. How was school today? Good. Can I come with you to the dump? Sure. Your mother’s being a bitch, right? Okay.

  It’s a script that’s worked for us so far, but today I sense Pop wants more.

  “I’ve got some homework,” I say, because I really do, and engaging in dialogue is the last thing I want to do with Pop. I check my cheap Mickey Mouse watch, hoping that Faith will come home soon. She’s at a friend’s house—and my heart sinks knowing she’ll probably be there all day and into the evening. Pop and Mom are being more lax with her after the accident, and I suspect they have a hard time just being around her now. She’s making herself more and more scarce. Every time I think of it, I miss her and the piece that she lost.

  “You don’t want to sit out here with your old dad?”

  “No, that’s not it, it’s just—”

  “What, you’re too good for me now?” he snarls. My thoughts are weaving back and forth, do I stay, or do I run away? The fact that Mom’s inside makes no difference. When he starts up, there isn’t anything she can do, so nothing she does.

  “No, Pop. My room’s a mess, I got to clean it up before Faith comes home, you know?”

  “You said you had homework.”

  “Well, that too. I have both things to do,” I say nervously. He eyes me something harsh, but I stare straight ahead. What do they say about bears? Or maybe it’s rabid dogs? Don’t look at them straight on, or they’ll rip out your throat.

  “What’s that you got there?” he asks, tearing the ant book away from me. I wince, not because he hurt me, but because I really think of the book as a line of defense. Now there’s nothing between me and him but air and the savvy I don’t have.

  “Give it here,” I say weakly, reaching for it. He blocks me with his muscular shoulder, cradles the open book in his arm, and takes a long drag from his cigarette. He’s actually reading it. Never seen Pop read a damn thing besides magazines and car manuals.

  “You think you know a lot?” he asks.

  “I know a lot about ants,” I say, ready to pay tribute to the book and its world of knowledge, I’m all for unleashing amazing facts, it’s one of the things I do best. “Did you know that ants—”

  “Shut up,” Pop says, hitting me in the stomach with the book. I hunch over in pain, I’m not expecting this, I didn’t say anything disrespectful, Jesus. There’s a pounding in my ears, and I’m ashamed that lately my fear intensifies so quickly and abrupt. Pop’s eyes home in on me, unblinking, then he grins. I should be used to him being volatile, unpredictable, but I’m not. I never will be.

  Without saying anything, I get up to go inside. The screen door whines as I open it, and there’s Mom eating popcorn in her designated spot watching her designated show: The Home Shopping Network. A half-empty bottle of wine sits on the end table. She barely acknowledges me. The solace of my room calls.

  I hear Pop yell, Don’t you walk away from me, son, cranking the screen door open, tripping over the threshold, causing a few boxes to teeter on their stacks. I walk past the kitchen briskly, but not briskly enough. Pop catches my wrist, the callouses from lifting weights scratch against my skin, and without any reservation, he slams me against the wall in the hallway. Picture frames clatter with the vibration of impact as I try to not make a sound. This time a box does fall. I think I hear Mom say leave him alone, but I can’t be sure because of her thick, sloppy slur. I barely remember him fumbling through his pocket, I barely remember hearing my mother’s laborious attempt to stand up, but I do remember to the minute detail the flick of his lighter and the power of his forearm across my chest. He’s so strong I hear the flimsy walls of our trailer creak, I’m hoping that the drywall will cave in and that the roof will collapse on both of us.

  “Don’t ever walk away from me,” he repeats, his viper eyes meeting mine, a splatter of his spit across my face. The alcohol stench is so concentrated it stings. “I could squash you like an ant.”

  He raises the lit Zippo to my chin, I strain against the wall, twist my neck to avoid the heat, try to wrench away from him with the strength of my legs, but he’s stomped and ground his feet on top of mine. When I squirm, that only makes him angrier, makes him dig his elbow and fist against my torso, and that’s when the real pain starts. With the flick of his lighter the flame licks from my neck to the side of my face, and I hear the feathery hairs sizzle, smell the burning of it and now my flesh, my skin is burning, burning, my mouth is closed but I’m shrieking in my throat, and he’s laughing in his. The flame goes out but does nothing to relieve the pain. Mom appears in the hallway, she says, “Cut it out, you two.” As if we’re roughhousing and this is a playful challenge between father and son. Pop’s not listening, lights it up again for another moment or two, and the agony lasts forever. My skin must be melting like wax; he’s burning me to the bone. The flame goes out, yet the heat has already burrowed in my ear canal, reaching my brain to fry all gray matter.

  “Mom,” I say hoarsely. “Mom.” She drops her wineglass; it breaks into large pieces. The flame’s back on and he’s out for the kill, torment and torture. I’m on th
e verge of fainting. Witch burning. Tarred and feathered. A thousand lashes. I’m done. That’s when he lets me go. As if he knows the line to the exact millimeter. I double over with my hands on my knees and dry heave. Placing my palm to the side of my face twists me up in hellish agony, the stickiness against my fingers horrid, the smell of burned flesh pungent. Mom and Pop stand in silence, watching.

  Still bent over, I spy a glass shard at my feet, curved and pointy. I grab it and catapult myself at him, arm raised, white-hot and unthinking with rage. Shock sparks over his face and in a flash he shields himself with his arm. A slash against his skin, immediate gash of blood, I gasp, fighting the urge to apologize. Then he slaps the shard out of my hand and I turn and run.

  Hop on my bike, slamming down on the hard seat hurts my balls, but I almost welcome the pain as a distraction from the mother of all hurt. I’m not afraid of the damage done, I’m not concerned with how it looks. The thing that scared me the most was the curve of his lips in the faintest of smiles and her standing there, watching.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I come out of it strangely ecstatic, or maybe it’s just the relief of leaving it behind. The first thing I’m aware of is the heat on my cheek and neck. The other worst memory of all time sticks to me, tattoo permanent. All these years I’ve pushed it back, and now it’s here, front and center, star of the show. I want to kick, punch, scream, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, yet despite the tantrum, the damage, it changed me. Maybe I’m changed once more for experiencing it twice. The blisters took a few hours to bubble up from my face—they were big yellow bulges that popped eventually without me touching them. It took weeks to heal: flaps of skin after the blisters burst, then pus, next the scab, red graduating to purple. Second-degree burns, the doctor said. We lied about the cause. Pop apologized for a month straight and went to one session of therapy. I got hit sometimes in the years after, but it was never as bad as being burned.