The Bones of Who We Are: Cantos Chronicles 3

By CL Walters

Gabe Daniels always figured his DNA is flawed. One only has to look to his past to see it, and it's why he’s tried to hide it in new layers of his life: his new home, his adoptive parents, Seth, Abby. But darkness is always at his heels. With the impending death of his former best friend - a death for which he feels responsible

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mixed Plate Press
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734256895

CL Walters

CL Walters writes in Hawai'i where she lives with her husband, two children and acts as a pet butler to two pampered fur-babies. She's the author of the YA Contemporary series, The Cantos Chronicles (Swimming Sideways, The Ugly Truth and The Bones of Who We Are), as well as the adult book, The Letters She Left Behind. The Stories Stars Tell, In the Echo of this Ghost Town and When the Echo Answers are her most recent releases New Adult Contemporary Romance releases. For up-to-date news, sign up for her monthly newsletter on her website at www.clwalters.net as well as follow her writer's journey on Instagram @cl.walters.

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The Bones of Who We Are

THE BONES OF WHO WE ARE

THE CANTOS CHRONICLES

BOOK THREE

CL WALTERS

Mixed Plate Press

CONTENTS

Also By CL Walters

The Bones of Who We Are

Foreword

Chapter 1

Gabe

5

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 2

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 3

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 4

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 5

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 6

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 7

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 8

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

4

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 9

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 10

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 11

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 12

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 13

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 14

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 15

Gabe

3

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 16

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 17

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 18

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 19

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 20

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 21

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 22

Gabe’s Journal

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 23

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 24

Gabe’s Journal

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 25

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 26

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 27

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 28

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 29

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 30

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 31

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 32

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 33

1

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 34

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 35

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 36

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 37

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 38

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 39

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 40

Gabe

Gabe’s Journal

Chapter 41

Gabe

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Gabe

Chapter 45

Gabe

0

Chapter 46

1

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

2

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

3

Chapter 52

Textual Notes

Playlist

Acknowledgments

For Your Consideration

Excerpt: The Messy Truth About Love

Excerpt: The Stories Stars Tell

Excerpt: The Trials of Imogene Sol

About the Author

ALSO BY CL WALTERS

The Bones of Who We Are is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, locales, and events portrayed is entirely coincidental, are products of the author’s imagination, and/or are used fictitiously.

This work, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written consent of the author.

Mixed Plate Press

Honolulu, Hawaii

Copyright © 2019, 2020 CL Walters

Cover Art by: Sara Oliver Designs

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7342568-7-1

ISBN: 978-1-7342568-8-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-7342568-9-5 (ebook)

To my life rafts: my husband, my children, my mother and father, my sister, my family, my friends. Thank you for keeping me afloat when I’m sinking

FOREWORD

I want to provide a trigger warning. It’s only fair for me to tell you up front that Gabe’s story isn’t an easy one. Think of this as an escape hatch in case you aren’t ready to take this journey. Gabe has reached the end of his tether and faces a choice: life or death? He thinks he wants the latter.

As an educator, I’ve come across too many Gabes, Seths and Abbies. Young adults struggling with drugs and alcohol, sexual assault, bullying, identity, abusive friends and family. These struggles present in a myriad of ways: depression, perfectionism, substance abuse, anxiety and panic disorder, cutting, eating disorders just to name a few. It has been a painful part of my job. Students who have talked about the murder of a family member; the drug addicted parent and/or the one in jail; the student raising siblings because his or her guardian is trying to keep a roof over their heads; a student molested by a stepparent or the trusted family friend; the pain of being told you are a sin because of your sexual identity. The pain of a teen’s life is as real as the pain in an adult life and yet we often trivialize their experience. To exacerbate the struggle, their toolkit has limitations due to inexperience and stages of development. But we don’t talk about the reality of teen struggle, heck we don’t talk about the reality of adult struggle.

Did you know that according to the National Institute of Mental Health, suicide in the United States ranks second only to accidental death in people ages 10-34? Males are five times more likely to commit suicide than females and the rates have climbed since 2002. Theories about the skewed gender statistics are theorized to be rooted in male culture; a man is less likely to 1) recognize his struggle, 2) talk about his struggles and feelings, and 3) seek help for the issues he is facing. Like life, Gabe’s and Seth’s narratives are weaved together with multiple threads of varied experience and at the heart of it are young men who need advocates and support.

My hope is that these stories resonate with the readers who need to read them. I know it’s a difficult journey, but I didn’t feel like that was a reason not to tell it. If only to support our understanding of the ways people struggle, and the ways we can either find help or be a help. 

With that in mind, I did ask for support. Doctor Miller—a character you will meet along the way—was vetted by a mental health professional. I tried my best to honor those discussions, and the work of amazing mental health professionals that do the heavy lifting with teens identified with mental illness. 

If you are thinking about suicide or just need someone to talk to

CALL 1-800-273-TALK (open 24 hours a day).

DO NOT HESITATE! Call.

1

DECOMPOSITION

I trip over something and fall to my knees, too drunk to care. My jeans become wet. It should be uncomfortable, but there is little I’m thinking about other than a blue tarp and zip ties. On all fours, I look up. The forest rises around me. Evergreens are stoic in their solitude. The deciduous trees, however, have shed withered memories of summer which coat the ground around them. The gray sky promises a cold rain is on the way. Fall has slipped toward the death of winter. It’s the perfect place to get lost. It is the perfect place to die.

I get to my feet again, swaying and unsteady, arms out to my sides. My jacket is heavy, weighted with a bottle in one pocket and the gun in the other. Moving forward, I struggle through the undergrowth toward the fort Seth and I made. I wonder if it is still standing. Our friendship isn’t. Perhaps it disintegrated with the first punch of the Freak Challenge. Or maybe that just snapped the first zip tie, and every subsequent fight after broke it apart a little more. Having sex with Abby—that probably detonated it into shards. Maybe I’m headed toward nothing but debris, since that is all my life has become anyway.

The grasses and shrubs are difficult to navigate when sober, so being inebriated makes it like sloshing through a swamp chest deep. I trip again, push against the wet earth with my hands, and wipe the mud onto the legs of my jeans as I keep going. Everything is numb. I can’t feel the cold. Even my drunk brain knows the damp cold coats like a foggy jacket seeping through the skin and muscle all the way to the bones. A droplet hits my cheek; the sky will open up soon. The fort isn’t much farther.

It’s symbolic in a way. The gray sky. The rain. The forest. This choice. The fort was the first place in Cantos where I built new, untainted memories—with Seth. I think in symbols. Keeping the thoughts locked in patterns forces the feelings to stay at arm’s length. I need that, because without that analytical distance, the vulnerability would destroy me. I can hear Doc Miller asking me to think about this choice further. I don’t. That’s too hard. Ignoring the voice is easier, and with all the alcohol I’ve consumed, distant.

When I make it to the fort, the makeshift shelter made with eleven-year-old hands still stands. A corner of the blue-tarp roof hangs, dripping water onto piles of fallen leaves collected against the walls. Outside of the boyhood stronghold, the earth is soft and slick with decomposition. I draw the bottle from one pocket and take another sip of the amber liquor instead of trying to capture the thought. I’d want to write a poem about it, but my hazy thoughts keep it in the remote periphery of my mind. No connections there, only pain and disillusion. I know that whatever safe haven this fort once symbolized is about to be destroyed. I can’t seem to help it.

Without permission, my thoughts travel toward the monster, who is my biological father. Alcohol sends me down mental roads I usually avoid for good reason. Today, though, walking toward death, I don’t fight it. The alcohol has made the route slippery, and I can’t stop the slide. I wonder if he contemplated things like symbolism on that night when I was ten. I didn’t know him enough to presume.

I shudder.

Does dying hurt?

Another droplet hits my head. Still outside the fort, I look up at the gray sky visible through the tops of the trees, the contrast between the shades of black, white, gray, somber and sad like me. A few more raindrops land on my face, so I duck into the fort, swaying through the small opening, bent at the waist on unsteady feet, larger now than the boy who helped make it. My perspective is also different, smaller in some ways.

The fort is a den filtered in blue light. Slipping back in time, it was once a magic fortress full of wonder, safety, and hope. I’d spent three summers with my best friend here, conjuring dreams to save us.

This hurts too much.

Hunched, I continue into the hideaway and stumble over a root arched above the ground just inside the entrance. Forgetting where I am, I straighten and hit my head on a branch under the tarp. With slurred profanity, I crouch and push up the tarp slung low with a pool of water. It disperses above me like a flash flood, spilling over the outside of the den in rivulets. I sink to my knees and take another sip of the alcohol I’d pilfered from Dale and Martha, my adoptive parents.

That night, seven years ago, the night I ran from my real mother and father, I think my ten-year-old self knew I was running from a moment like this. It was as though I knew my life would come to a choice like this, like my old man. It’s in my DNA after all, a darkness which I can never escape. I’d tried to keep running though. With things like this sanctuary, Dale and Martha, the Seth of my childhood, and Abby—God, Abby.

I sigh.

They’d brightened me with hope, and maybe that’s worse. Hope gained and lost is like swallowing broken glass.

I swallow again, feeling the glass rise, and then scramble from my spot in the den to vomit. The fetid monster I’ve swallowed spews out into the grassy loam. When I’m done, the heaving past, I crawl on my knees back into the fort to the farthest point from the entrance to get away from the rot of my gut. The smell is bothersome—alcohol and hopelessness. I lie down on old crusty blankets weathered by time and seasons and stare up at the blue plastic covering. Seth body is covered in a blue blanket, I think. The tarp ripples like the ocean above me as a breeze skims across its surface. I can almost imagine I’m underwater, drowning in the deep blue, but the chilly breeze of the day weaves its way around me.

I draw my jacket tighter. One pocket is heavier than the other, and I shove my hand into the jacket pouch to remove the gun when I remember its weight. Still there. Cold. Final. It’s the portent of a promise made by the monster of my biological father in the small apartment where I lived with my biological mother. I close my eyes wishing away the memories and lift the bottle to my lips wincing when the liquid heat hits the wounds. There’s so much pain looking backward, and today—learning from Martha it was time to tell Seth goodbye—tilted the view. Now the pain and guilt that used to only be behind me will consume me looking forward too. There isn’t any escape from it. I’m drowning in it underneath this blue tarp.

I think about Seth. Our laughter. Our games. Our competitions. I think about our secrets. We became the bones holding the other up, but we cracked apart. Tall walls built with jealousy, anger, bitterness, and hatred, which blocked the light. The walls became a fortress.

I carry the responsibility for the impending death of my former best-friend. He was in a car accident on the same night as our fight, brewing for years. It was the same night I’d lost my pain in the arms of Abby, found solace in her body and crossed over a threshold of no return. I love her. He loved her too. He loved her first.

I consume more whiskey, tipping the bottle up and drinking another large gulp. It dribbles from my mouth and down my cheeks because I’ve remained lying down, which makes drinking anything a struggle. I choke on it and am forced to roll to my side and lean up on an elbow to keep it. I just want to lay down. I want to drown in the elixir and numb everything. I want to find the sweet spot at the end of the alcohol rainbow where the gold isn’t anything more than peace.

I lay back down. My vision blurs. I blink, tired. I close my eyes. Behind my eyelids, memories string together like blurry snapshots clipped to a piece of yarn hanging against a dark wall in my mind. Nothing feels cohesive, and I slip into the morass of my thoughts like wading through a stinking swamp. The alcohol rushes through me continuing to work its magic on the horrific ache which accompanies me. But I can feel it tugging me into the abyss I’ve always carried inside me too. I grasp for the golden memories.

One snapshot: Abby.

I imagine her face. The gentle, smooth brown of mixed-race skin punctuated with a smattering of freckles along her nose and her cheeks. The brown sugar sweetness of her eyes that curl at the corners with her smile. Thinking of her makes my heartbeat jolt, and I smile despite my pain. But I can’t forget what I’ve done, who I am, and the sharp burn of tears presses against my eyes like razors. I keep the shards in behind my eyes and swallow the hurt, recalling her smile. Her laugh. Her touch. Her kiss.

I sling my arm over my eyes as if it might help block her from my memory. It doesn’t. Regret is heavy and final. I pushed her away when I needed her most, but my betrayal is evidence I don’t deserve her devotion. I lied to her to disconnect. I rationalize it’s a protection; My DNA carries a curse she doesn’t deserve. It’s dangerous. I shudder again, regressing back into the bleak empty room of who I am. Abby deserves more. She deserves better.

Just like Dale and Martha. They deserve better. My adoptive parents have been bright spots when I might have otherwise crumbled into the blank spaces and nothingness I’ve created to survive. I see now, I can’t escape it. Just like Seth and his asshole dad. I’m still in that tiny apartment where the seams of me were ripped apart and my stuffing emptied out. I may have been stitched back together, but the stuffing is still gone. Dale and Martha have been given an empty shell for a son. They don’t deserve the aftermath of what I’m about to do, but they also don’t deserve the monster I feel growing inside of me either. I may have tried really hard to re-stuff myself with good things, but I think maybe the monster waiting in me devours the light, reminding me of where I come from, who I really am: Nothing.

I open my eyes because the world is spinning. My eyelids are heavy.

I hold the gun up, study it, and test it in my hand. It is both comforting and frightening. It’s matte black, devoid of light, a black hole whose gravity is too difficult to escape. I lay the weapon flat against my chest in a grim hug. My eyelids laden with exhaustion, I close my eyes. I’ve been fighting so long, and it has taken a toll. Now, everything tilts, and I’m off balance sliding to the edge of a precipice where I grab hold of the edge.

The tarp snaps against a gust. I don’t even open my eyes; I can’t, but I listen as the rain begins to pelt the plastic, while the wind whips it. I’m dizzy, floating, untethered.

My mind conjures Martha and Dale dancing in the kitchen. His arm is around her waist, the other drawn up and out to the side. One of her hands in his and the other on his shoulder. They smile and laugh, dancing to music only they can hear. I’m at the dining table watching them and for a split second, I allow myself to think about a future I’ve never considered before. I imagine this is what my life could be: light and beauty, joy, and gratitude. I picture Abby. I harnessed some of her magic, but the current present drifts into the pervasive pressure of pain that presses against my lungs.

The pitter patter of the rain strengthens becoming consistent against the tarp. It lulls my already dull senses. The freefall through the blackness inside me continues, and I remember I came here to do something. My brain trudges through the tall grasses outside and looks at the fort. I remind myself what I was supposed to do was cumbersome and heavy.

Oh.

The gun.

On my chest.

I think I should do it now. I should raise the gun to my head. I should pull the trigger, but I can’t move.

Tears slip from my eyes unaccompanied by sound and fury, just the broken pieces of myself leaking out through my eyes.

I’d said goodbye, but . . .

This hurts too much.

Under that blue tarp, I roll to my side curling up into a ball, my tears finding power. I’m not a crier, so maybe it’s the alcohol. And, maybe, that’s why I’ve come here to the fort Seth and I built in the beauty of a childhood friendship which healed us both once upon a time (How’s that, Doc?). Seth is going to die. I’m to blame. I’ve hurt him. I always will be a part of the biology that made me. Rotten, broken, and decomposing.

I wonder if dying will hurt?

But though I feel the weight of why I’m here, the blackness rushes up around me; I slip over the edge, and I plummet into the darkness.

GABE

I’m in a free-fall, arms out to my sides, grasping at empty space. No sound. No light. Nothing. Then I hit bottom with a bone-shattering thud. It hurts. When I catch my breath, I struggle to my feet.

Hello? I yell out, but the sound dies the moment it leaves my mouth, disintegrating into the stifling acoustics of absence.

Wherever I am is a black hole. I’ve just arrived, and yet I’ve been here for some time. I’m in a cycle of broken things, attached to my skin like the strings of a puppet.

Maybe I’m floating.

Maybe I’m tied down.

I’m waiting.

I’m stuck.

Gabe? A voice I recognize but have to sift through my mind to place breaks the sound barrier of nothing.

Is someone there? It’s unclear if I’ve said this aloud, or if I’ve only thought it into existence, but the moment the words are concrete, a brilliant burst of light flashes like a sun flare. I squint my eyes.

Gabe?

Doc? I ask, finally placing the voice and relief loosens the knots in my body. I see my therapist in my mind’s eye.

The nothing slips away, as though it is oil sliding from a canvas. A beautiful landscape appears: a meadow, blue sky, sun which warms skin, trees, and flowers. All of it saturated with golden, glimmering color. A radiance of warmth lingers on my skin like joy and presses against my internal darkness. It recedes but lingers at the edges like a frame. I recognize the happiness, but maybe I’m too removed to accept it.

I rotate in a circle where I’m standing in the meadow to look for my companion. When I find Doc, I recognize him, but I don’t. Instead of attired in one of his color-coordinated outfits, he’s clothed in brilliance. His form is incandescent with light, as if he’s wearing a robe of radiant splendor. I think of Bible stories in church. The brightness is a stark contrast to his velvet black skin, but it’s also suffused with shining beams. The warmth, the energy moves like waves and wraps around me like a hug. He smiles, and I feel safe.

Doc? Is that you? I ask.

Take courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.

How did you find me?

What do you mean? I’ve always been with you.

His words confuse me.

No. I say shaking my head. I doubt what he has said, and darkness presses against the edges of the frame. That isn’t true. I’ve been by myself. I’m by myself now.

Are you? Alone?

Yes.

Where? he asks.

In the fort Seth and I made.

Doc glances around. Is this the fort?

The meadow still stretches out around us. The sky above is still cerulean, and now I notice purple flowers peppering the green grass. I shake my head. No. I don’t know where this is. I glance back at him. Am I dreaming?

Doc Miller offers a smile filled with the wisdom of the universe. You said you are alone. He turns away and begins across the meadow.

Wait, Doc. I’m sorry. I try to follow, but I’m unable to move, my feet rooted to where I stand. I don’t understand what’s happening. My heart swells with fear and picks up speed. Help!

Doc stops, looks at me, and maintains the smile. I am, he says. Remember, Gabe. The only way to the other side is through.

He disappears, there one moment and gone the next. The meadow folds up on itself around me as though it’s a piece of paper. I’m left with the darkness.

Through what? I yell, but the sound of my voice bounces back as if it is a rubber ball that has hit a wall. It’s a question left unanswered and bouncing around in the darkness with me.

GABE’S JOURNAL

Vomit up the monster.

It plays with blocks,

Stacking and rearranging them

Around holes in my heart.

I’m the butt of a joke;

It’s laughing, wide-mouthed,

And kicks—cracking what’s already damaged.

The monster crawls back inside

To be vomited another day.

-by Gabe

2

GOODBYE

I hold the ivory wall for support and hesitate in the wide doorway of Seth’s hospital room where I attempt to compose myself. I wonder if anyone can tell I’m drunk? No one has stopped me yet. A glance down the hallway. Still clear. Pretending to be sober is hard work.

How long ago was it that Martha said I needed to say goodbye? Was it today? It feels like a lifetime ago, but I think it was just this morning. Enough time to get in a fight with Pilner, ruin things with Abby for good, and down most of a bottle of Johnnie Walker I stole. An active day for Gabe Daniels, all-in-all.

Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, I tap my jacket pockets for the bottle and remember I’ve left it in the truck. My brain and my body are slow. It’s ridiculous to think I would have brought the bottle into the hospital. I scoff at myself, huffing air through my nose, while my lips curl with a sloppy smile.

Seth and I’d always planned to see what getting drunk was all about. We didn’t do it despite the plan. Our histories crushed any bravado we might have used to spur us onward, at least for me. I can’t say the same for him—but based on stories I’ve heard, his avoidance changed. The smile fades from my face. It wasn’t long after the successful bottle pilfer the Freak Challenge began.

Disengaging with the door frame, I take deliberate steps into the hospital room, feigning sobriety. Seth’s room is empty of people except for him—his body—on the bed. Lucky me. I keep myself upright and reach for the bed to lean against it. The first thing I notice is how small Seth looks. He’s still his seventeen-year-old self but looks like he’s slipped back in time to when we first met at ten. Vulnerable. Broken. I swallow down the emotions, which rise in my throat—or maybe it’s vomit. I pause, waiting for it to come out and glance around for a waste basket. I swallow again as the feeling subsides.

Seth’s got a machine breathing for him.

Beep.

I’m responsible for this.

Beep.

Partially, anyway.

Beep.

I might not have been driving the car, but I can’t help the feeling I pushed him to drive it.

I dump my loose body into a chair on the side of the bed, near Seth’s head, and lean forward to look at the person I once called my best friend. Two years, my enemy. The truth is he was my only best-friend my whole life.

I blink and roll with an alcohol tide which has me swaying, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Seth’s bruises on his face are healing, but obviously whatever has him nicked up on the inside is winning the war. Kind of like me, I think, even though I’m awake.

I clear my throat, not sure how to begin. Looking at the shell of Seth, the heaviness of reality crashes in on me. Martha said– I start but the emotion catches in my throat. I swallow keeping everything inside and force myself to say, I came to say goodbye. My voice sounds weird to my own ears. It’s devoid of those emotions I’m fighting, but overfull of regret sitting at the back of my throat and choking me.

I lean back in the chair, away from sleeping Seth. Dying Seth. The wood creaks.

The cut above my eye burns, and the bruise on my cheek aches. Just two of the new additions to my marred face. I reach up to touch the cut above my eye. I think about the fight Seth and I had the same night he ended up in here. Don’t feel too real about my face, I tell him. I swipe my lips with the back of my hand, feeling the cut there too. It wasn’t you. Tommy Pilner from school went after me. I kinda thought that thing might be over after you and me went at it. Don’t worry, Tommy looks worse. I pause.

It’s strange to think for two years, I never threw a punch. Not until Seth. He was the one who started it—the challenge—after all. He was the only one who deserved my anger. No sense taking the shit anymore, you know. Tommy might be headed this way. Maybe he’s here already. He dragged Abby into it. No choice but to rearrange his face. I look down at my bruised knuckles.

What had the prick said? I can see that racist, sexist asshole in my mind’s eye, jumping around on the balls of his feet in his hideous yellow polo and his pasty white, wiry body writhing and coiled for a fight. What had he said? I have to really think about it, since I went blind with rage. Oh yeah, I tell Seth, He’d called her a nigger-loving whore, and then said something about paying her for a blow-job after he took me out. No choice, really, I finish aloud, not really sure why, and wish I had the Johnny Walker with me. The words—the power of them—are sour on my tongue. I know people say they’re just words, but… naw. Smashing Pilner’s face on the first punch had felt too good, but I hadn’t stopped there. He’d gotten in a couple hits. Then I’d bashed his head against the concrete. All of the rage I’ve been holding in, trying to contain, out now. The monster unleashed.

But seeing Abby after, the fear on her face, that hadn’t felt good.

I swallow the emotion back down.

I blink trying to remember where I am and what I’m doing here.

Oh. Seth.

I see him. He looks so small.

I wish he would turn his head and look at me. When we were friends, when it was at its best, he would have said something funny. He was the funny one. He was the one who helped me not be so serious, stuck in my dark thoughts. Everyone always liked him because he was easy to like. Wishing him awake doesn’t change anything. His eyes remain shut, and his dark hair is limp against the pale skin of his forehead. He looks broken and thin. Even at our worst, he was the zest. I’ve missed his friendship, and it’s the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. The anger is gone, but the guilt aches.

I pat my jacket pockets for the bottle of alcohol, and imagine the weight of the gun in there, too. They aren’t in either of my pockets, though. I remember now. They are outside in the truck.

I grab hold of the arms of the chair. It’s to steady myself, but also to find something to ground me. I thought you and I would always be best friends, I say and swallow the pain. I couldn’t have imagined this. I didn’t expect we’d purposely set out to hurt one another, but we’ve done a pretty frickin’ good job haven’t we? We’ve fucked each other up. I stop a moment and watch the monitor blink and blip, the lines moving. I wonder if this would have happened to him if we’d never been friends. "I was thinking about that day we met, back in fifth grade, when I first came here. I felt like such a freak—kind of fitting, right? After all the crap I’d seen, and the therapy and stuff, I didn’t think there was any way I was going to fit in.

Miss Warner—she’d asked you to show me around. We’d played basketball at recess. I don’t think anything would have stopped us becoming friends. I smile, but it slips away as I remember how it changed.

Ninth grade.

A girl.

Jealousy.

Seth manipulated the first fight.

I was angry. Time fueled resentment and vengeance until I could get even.

I got even.

I picture Abby’s face. I imagine the firelight glowing against her golden-brown skin, my hands mapping the curves of her body, and my tongue tasting her. I swallow the hurt and drop my head.

The ultimate betrayal.

I’d gotten even at a heavy price.

Eleventh grade.

A girl.

Jealousy.

I’d done exactly what he’d assumed in ninth grade, but instead of Brook, it had been Abby. The girl we both love. I’ve ruined my friendship with her too. I’ve ruined the love she felt for me. Doc Miller would ask me to consider the why of my choices, but I think it’s the what. I’m my biological parents’ son.

This is going to sound really weird, I tell Seth. "Even with all the stuff we’ve been through, I never had a friend like you before all the stupid shit went down. Even from before I came here, to Cantos.

I wish things were different. I wish we hadn’t fought about Brook. I wish I would have confronted you right away, when I found out you’d pushed Brice to do what he did. I wish I hadn’t held that grudge. I would rather you were still here, so I could tell you I’m sorry. I would trade places with you, Seth. I should. A sob bubbles up and out. I catch it and keep any more emotion from finding its way out of me. If only he’d never met me.

I think about the gun again inside the truck, waiting for me. I deserve that. I think the hardest part about what’s to come is hurting Dale and Martha. But I think maybe it’s better this way—for everyone. No more hurting. No more wishing I could hold Abby. No more regret over you. No more pain. No more nightmares. It will all just go away. I use my hands to wipe an imaginary clean slate. My parents—all that fucked up DNA—gone.

I wonder where Seth’s parents are and look over my shoulder, wanting to be clear before they’re back. I want the bottle and shift uncomfortably in the chair. Liquid bravery. Then remember why I’m here. Martha’s words: They don’t think Seth’s going to make it, Gabe. It might be time to say goodbye. I look at the form that used to be Seth. The shell of him.

I don’t want to hurt Dale and Martha anymore, I tell him. They are too good for me. They’ve been there like…there, you know? And what have I offered but shit? I love them and this will fix it. Bring them the peace they should have, and they won’t have to worry anymore. I think about how they’ve worked and worked to fix my life over their own. The late nights at my bedside; the comfort after nightmares; the money it costs for counseling; the trips to school to fight for me; the back and forth trips to court; the love. So many ways. They choose me every day. What have I offered them but a life of misery?  

My real father is finding his way out, I say out loud and nearly gag on the words. I have these terrible dreams I hurt them, like him. Truth is though, Seth, I have already hurt them. I hurt you. I hurt Abby. Ironic, yeah? I guess this means I’m like him even though I hate him. I understand a little bit though, now, his pain. You know already, yeah? I picture Seth and his dad after the fight. I imagine Pilner’s face and his blood on my hands along with the fear on Abby’s face. This way is better. The easiest solution. Like pushing a reset button.

Does it hurt to die?

I shake my head to get the gun out of my mind. I need another drink. I wish you would sit up and talk to me, I think, and then realize I’ve said it out loud. He doesn’t. I’m scared, but focused. One more thing. You have to stay. You need to come back and be there for Abby. Even as I say it, I know it has been Abby taking care of us the whole time. She doesn’t—hasn’t—ever needed either of us. We’ve needed her.

I stand as if motion will make what I need to do less frightening. Time to go. The muscles of my legs are disconnected and move erratically, so I grab the back of the chair to keep from falling. I watch Seth’s chest rise and fall and know I can’t leave without saying it. I loved you, brother. The words catch like rocks in my throat. I struggle to move the rest of the sound through the landslide out into the open. Even now. I love you. Tears, unwelcome and undeserved press against the back of my eyes like swords, but I won’t let them pierce through. It is better to hold onto the emotion, because if I don’t, I might bleed out all over this floor.

I leave the room. I leave Seth’s broken body behind, and I don’t look back, because I can’t. The truth of what this has become—our relationship, his life, mine, what I’ve done to him—is a burden so heavy, walking is difficult. Breathing is a challenge. Suddenly, I can’t seem to hold the tears back, and they push through like a dam breaking, overflowing and blurring my sight. I move through the hallway clutching the wall for support. I need to get out of here and am not moving with the same care as when I arrived.

Gabe?  

I freeze, swipe at my eyes to clear them, and sway to find the voice.

Seth’s dad is staring at me.

Mr. Peters, I say, speaking slowly to appear sober. I press my back against the wall, for support, but also because he’s as frightening as my own father—a monster in human skin. Like me.

Son? He reaches out and takes my elbow. I’m surprised by how gentle his action feels. If I weren’t drunk, I might notice his concern and tenderness—both uncharacteristic of him—but I am drunk, so I don’t. All I think about is how he’s put his hands on Seth. How he’s hurt my friend over and over. You okay? he asks.

Fine. Fine. I pull my elbow from his grasp and have to step sideways to keep on my feet. He’ll know I’m drunk; he’s the expert after all.

I don’t think you are, he says, reaching for me again, steadying my sway with a hand on my arm. Let me call your dad.

I jerk my arm out of his grasp and slip against the wall, foot over foot. He can’t call Dale. Get the fuck off me, asshole. I steady myself and turn away to get to the elevators. You’re a no-good son-of-a-bitch.

I won’t argue with you, son. He’s following me. But let’s leave my mother out of this. Let’s call your dad; Let’s call Dale. His footfalls are consistent and close.

I shake my head. No. No.  

Please, Gabe? Mr. Peters says. Stay here with me. We can talk.

I hesitate a moment and look at him. He’s an arm’s length away,