by David Kummer
EVERYTHING,
SOMEWHERE
ALSO BY DAVID KUMMER
My Abigail: A Psychological Thriller
Until We Burn: A Psychological Thriller
Home: A Dystopian Journey
EVERYTHING,
SOMEWHERE
DAVID KUMMER
Copyright © 2021 by David Kummer.
Visit the author’s website at www.DavidKummer.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Published by David Kummer
Edited by Marni Macrae
Cover art and design by Dark Wish Designs
Interior design by Jordon Greene
FIRST EDITION
Hardcover ISBN 978-1-0879372-7-4
Paperback ISBN 978-1-0879367-8-9
Fiction: Young Adult Contemporary
Fiction: Coming-of-Age
TO MY MOM
because she, to quote Tom Petty, has
“a heart so big it could crush this town.”
O look, look in the mirror
O look in your distress
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless
O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart
It was late, late in the evening
The lovers, they were gone
The clocks had ceased their chiming
And the deep river ran on
- W.H. Auden, As I Walked Out One Evening -
Part 1
A Place of Incredible Boredom
1
Hudson
There hadn’t been a suicide in Little Rush for at least fifty years. Maybe that tells you everything you need to know. For a few years, I’d been keenly aware that I would one day break that streak. Like the moment before you hit a deer with your car, speeding on a backroad late at night. Inevitable. Beautiful. Raw.
It’s not that I wanted the feeling of death. I never liked pain. Always avoided it, honestly. I once cut my thighs with a razorblade for about a week before I gave that up. When I realized that alcohol numbed everything more effectively, I went for that particular addiction rather than self-harm. I suppose it was the better choice, in a brutal sort of way.
Honestly, you could even say I feared death. But at the same time, I couldn’t turn away from it. Talking with Willow once, I compared it to sitting on a train track. Not tied down, just of my own free will. With every night that passed, with every panic attack or breakdown, I could feel the ground shaking under my feet. See that swift-moving beast in the distance as it hurtled closer. Yes, I knew that death was coming for me. Faster than it does for most. I felt jaw-clenching fear but wanted it so damn badly.
Little Rush. That quaint, postcard town. I felt a disconnect from it. Everybody else, they found aspects to enjoy. They had places or people that rooted them. Not me.
All those people growing old and wasting away in the same spot for years… to me, it felt like they were settling, like they could’ve achieved something greater. Who would give up the world for a life of this? Not me.
I was gonna get out. But if I had to die here, I would take care of it my-goddamn-self.
All through high school, I thought about my funeral, probably more than was healthy. Especially the playlist. A set of songs that would capture my entire life. Maybe I’d start with Bon Iver. I wondered how it would affect the old people.
Honestly, I just hoped that Mason and Willow would stick around. Those were the only two people who really cared about me. They were the only two keeping me around. Not in Little Rush. Just alive in general.
* * *
“Hudson!” my father yelled from the first floor. I could barely hear him over the low hum from my window AC unit. The wooden stairs creaked as he moved up a few steps. “Go feed those chickens!”
I ground my teeth together. I’d been laying on my bed, head resting on a pillow, wasting away the first Friday of summer. This self-pitying, casket position served me well. “Mason’ll be here any minute,” I yelled back, not rude per se but definitely not happy.
I didn’t want an argument with him. After a full day working outside, he was often on edge. There was a moment’s pause. I closed my eyes and tried to really savor those last moments of rest. We both knew what would happen now. As a kid, I fought against doing any chores but eventually tired of my phone being taken away.
“Then you best hurry,” he called back with a chuckle.
His footsteps descended those first few steps. I heard my mom arguing with him briefly, something about dirt in the house. My father made his way to what we affectionately dubbed “the mud room.” Here, he would deposit shirts, boots, jeans, anything caked in mud or grass. Then Mom would wash it, and so the cycle went. They’d kiss after this, despite their twenty-plus years of kissing. I didn’t think they ever had sex nowadays. After all, I’d remained an only child my entire life, though I would’ve liked a sister. Maybe she’d turn out less conceited.
My father seemed like a typical farmer if you barely knew him. In a lot of ways, I was the same. But I liked to imagine that we weren’t so stereotypical on the inside. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Everybody in Little Rush had a bit of country in them, some more than others. I’d say my family was about average.
With this in mind, I rose from my bed and stared out the window. There was a large field of grass in front of our house, stretching out maybe a quarter-mile to the distant road. A chicken coop stood halfway, cheap fencing circling the squat building where those stupid fowl lived. I wasn’t sure why we even kept chickens. We never had other farm animals. Never owned any pets. And sure, Mom used the eggs, but those were available at the grocery store just a few miles away. Our house wasn’t far from town.
Down the stairs and trudging through the living room, I came to the front door. Every floor in our house was carpeted, save for the kitchen. There were a few fatherly dirt footprints leading down the hallway toward the mudroom. No wonder Mom had been angry. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to scrub it clean later.
A brisk walk to the chicken’s enclosure ensued, where I just had to scoop out some feed from a large plastic bag. A cup sat in the huge container. The sides felt like they were caked in ashes. I wiped the residue off on my worn jeans and turned away. Standing in the dark shade, I peered around at the small world that enclosed me. Chickens were clucking around my ankles, and the smell of feed and bird shit wafted to my nose.
My eyes snapped to the sun like a magnet to a fridge. Sinking in the distance, it made way for that perfect time of evening. The air chilled, the wind calmed, and the trees were a blend of yellow and green. No longer did stepping outside feel like wading into a sauna. No longer did the air stick to skin like a tight sweater from an estranged aunt. When the sun died off, when darkness fell and coyotes were cackling in the distance, the countryside came alive with shapes and shadows.
I breathed deep and made my way back to the house, all thoughts of chickens and chores gone. Mason would be here in an hour, maybe less, and I needed to shower.
As I reentered the house, I didn’t look back over my shoulder, though maybe I should’ve. The gate swung open, pushed by the breeze, because I hadn’t reset the lock. The chickens were already pecking near the opening.
* * *
Mason’s sleek, red convertible probably cost five times as much as my ramshackle truck. Acknowledging Willow with a no
d, I slid into his backseat and reached for my seatbelt. From the driver’s seat, he blew a kiss to my mom, who stood on the porch watching me climb in. She rolled her eyes but blushed all the same before disappearing indoors. Dad had gone into the shower just a few minutes ago, or he probably would’ve watched me all the way down the driveway.
“I hate when you do that,” I said with a touch of annoyance.
Mason glanced at me in the mirror, wearing that stupid grin on his face. “Gotta soften her up for when she finds you passed out ‘cause of our drinking.”
“Shut up,” I murmured but couldn’t help a smirk.
Willow, Mason’s girlfriend and my other close friend, scrolled through something on her phone. She wore sunglasses and an average outfit for her— long sleeved crop-top and worn jean shorts. Even though she came from a fairly poor family, she always managed to dress stylish. Mason himself wore a Nike tank top, like always, and cargo shorts. I felt a little out of place with my blue jeans and dirty Cincinnati Reds shirt, but I always did around these two. They were like something from a movie, a real star couple. Or at least they had the attitude and bodies for it.
Mason accelerated down the gravel driveway. It wound around my house from the back and then made straight to the road. Trees younger than me were planted on either side, casting long shadows on the yard. The car bounced slightly as he roared through the shaded portion. These maples gave the entrance to our property a nice vibe. It was, truthfully, a real scenic place until you saw our barn and the tractor Dad spent hours fixing, enhancing, tweaking. That piece of trash.
“What’d you get for tonight?” I asked as he turned out of my driveway onto the narrow country roads that mapped my life.
“He got Coors,” Willow answered.
“Disgusting,” I said. They weren’t that bad, but I loved to mess with Mason. “You never get good stuff.”
“Shut up. You’ll drink them, and you’ll like it.” He shot me a knowing look in the mirror, again with that cockeyed smirk and stupidly tanned features.
The two of them weren’t so helpful for my self-esteem, but friends are friends. His tanned skin in that waning sunlight, dark curly hair, with stunning Willow beside him... I couldn’t help noticing how impressively bland I’d become.
Without another word, I settled into the leather seat and leaned my head back. The wind rushed over me, throwing my stringy hair around and into my eyes. I smelled a bonfire somewhere nearby, a homely scent that carries for miles. The trees were golden, the air fresher than it had been all day. Overhead, there were no clouds in sight, just a brilliant, endless ombre of blue-to-orange-to-yellow.
The first week of June in Little Rush is the best time of the year (except for maybe October). In those first seven-to-ten days of June, the entire summer stretched before us like a cornfield beginning to bud. Little green shoots everywhere, and the dirt so soft you could almost sink in it. Each sunset more beautiful than the last, each morning a more refreshing birth. Days outside, nights by a bonfire. The occasional trip to a movie theater or bowling alley.
For teenagers like us, this summer held more promise than maybe any other. We were entering our senior year of high school, which meant we had more freedom than ever before. Everybody had their license by now, most of us knew the taste of beer almost as well as our fathers did, and the girls were the hottest they’d ever been. For someone like Mason, who already had his number-one option, that didn’t matter too much. For me, on the other hand, it was a constant thought.
The summer held so much hope. There were kids who couldn’t wait to get started in the family business, others who would work at McDonald’s their whole life. There were some who might trek off to college and explore all the possible careers waiting for them. They were maybe five years away from a real job, but only one from that slice of perfect independence called university.
And then there were people like me. I had nothing to look forward to. I wouldn’t be taking over my father’s business because we had none. I refused to follow in his well-trod footsteps, working at the local power-plant and turning hay fields into profit on the side. But I also didn’t have the money or motivation for another four years of school. I couldn’t stay in this town and work at McDonald’s for years. I had nowhere to go. No real assurance that I’d even be alive come next summer.
I thought about my funeral more than was healthy. Especially the people whose tears would moisturize my corpse. Especially the look in their eyes.
* * *
The convertible glided to a stop beside an old cabin deep in the woods. The back of it overlooked a small creek, while the front could have been an advertisement for a vacation rental. Mason grinned when he shifted into park and sighed like he always did when we arrived here. It was his father’s, but Jedidiah Cooper hardly ever had time for it. According to Mason, he hardly had time for anything but work. This cabin had become our most common drinking location about two years ago, once Mason stole a key to the place. (Technically, it was a gift, but it was also sort of robbery.)
“Haven’t been here in months,” he said, brightening as he turned to Willow and I in turn. “You guys ready?”
“Don’t get all nostalgic already,” I said, climbing out of the car and smacking him on the shoulder.
The cabin didn’t hold much inside. A large, open floor sitting area with two long sofas and a tiny television. It didn’t have cable or anything, but it did have Netflix and Wi-Fi. There was a large bedroom down the hall, a bathroom jutting out from the side. A ladder in the sitting room led to a tiny loft area overhead, complete with a bed that had been there for years. Mason and I spent plenty of nights there as children. Back when his dad didn’t work so much, and my parents were happy to let me leave anytime, as long as “Jed’s got a close eye on you hooligans.”
For us and our potentially disastrous drinking habits, the most enjoyable part of the cabin had nothing to do with inside. In the back, a spacious, furnished deck overlooked a small forest descent to the creekbed. The porch had chairs for eight people and a large table in the center, all of it wooden and smooth. We could sit there for hours, staring into the depth of trees and listening as the creek gurgled by just out of sight. The oaky smell of that porch grew heavier as the alcohol infused us with a new sense of life and loss of direction. One time, about eight beers in, I’d stumbled down to the creek bed and lounged on the rocks for a while. With my back completely soaked and eyes brighter than the moon overhead, I’d bumbled up the hill again and slept outside on the table.
This memory and many others coursed through me at the sight of the porch. It really had been forever since we’d come here last Halloween. The evening felt crisp now, and the sky had morphed into a pale shade of burgundy.
I helped them unload the trunk of Mason’s convertible. Thirty-six cans of beer —even if they were Coors— would be a good time. Along with a bottle of cheap vodka, which confused me for a moment.
“Since when did you drink vodka?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as Mason set it on the table.
He took a seat beside me. “Willow asked for it.”
“She doesn’t usually go that hard,” I commented. The two of us were lounging on the deck, and she’d gone back to the car for something, so I didn’t mind the momentary gossip.
“Me either. I’m… curious to see how wild she gets.” A smile touched his face, a scheming look with just a bit of lust. I guess it should’ve dawned on me earlier why Mason wanted her to spend the night here so badly.
Should’ve brought my ear plugs, I mused. Maybe I’d just sleep on the porch again.
Willow returned from the car and chose a chair across the table from both of us. While Mason and I carried on talking, she extracted a pink shot glass with Bob Ross on the side. Then she grasped the vodka bottle by the neck and unscrewed the cap.
“Did you tell your parents you were staying overnight?” Mason asked, cracking open his first can.
I took a pause before I answered. We ogled as Willo
w downed three shots in quick succession and an eager look spread over her face. Her body shuddered as the sting hit her, and she winced, laughing. The sound echoed around us for a moment.
I answered Mason’s question. “I didn’t, but it’ll be fine.” Taking a drink of my own beer and screwing up my face on purpose, I said, “Real high quality stuff, Mason.”
“You don’t have to drink any,” he said, calling my bluff. “I’ll save it for myself.”
“Whatever. Pass me another, will you?” And with that, I chugged the rest.
The minutes stretched before us. We told stories for a while, memories that we shared. Willow instigated some kind of toast to “the last good summer,” a cheesy move but also powerful in its own way. All three of us said, “We need to do this again soon” a few times, each more slurred than the previous repetition. I retold the story of my infamous tattoo, the one I’d given myself in a drunken stupor with a friend’s tattoo gun at some house party. That’d been almost a year ago, I realized. The last week before Junior year. Sloppy work, sure, but important to me.
The minutes lagged. It had been an hour, maybe two, when Willow checked her phone. I didn’t feel completely gone yet, maybe eight beers in, not yet feeling the last three. Mason, who weighed more than either of us, hadn’t even approached his wall yet. Willow had downed maybe five shots altogether, and her eyes were a bit loopy as she read whatever appeared on her screen.
“Oh my god.”
I grinned instinctively, because at that point anything made me laugh. I exchanged a glance with Mason, expecting Willow to have some funny video to share. But then she went on.
“You won’t believe this. Oh my god. You seriously won’t believe this.”