The Contradiction of Solitude(20)

The lack of forensic evidence in this case has led to a standstill in the investigation, intensifying the sense of fear and disquiet in the small town of Vanleer. Locals vocalized their concerns during a town meeting last week where Sheriff Carter was the focus of increasing hostilities. Sheriff Carter assured the unhappy crowd that solving the brutal murder on their doorstep was the department’s top priority.

In the meantime, Tawny Reave’s family has offered a substantial reward for any information that leads to an arrest.

I ran my finger along my bottom lip, re-reading the article several more times. Then I hit the print icon. A bit more research showed that the case had never been solved.

I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling something akin to excitement.

I have a new story to tell you, Daddy. I think you know this one.

It’s about a girl named Tawny. She was sad because her friend died. She didn’t want to live. She did things she shouldn’t because she wanted the pain to go away. But it never did.

Until the day came that she could be a star forever…and then she was finally free…

I gathered the printed papers and put them in a file that I kept in a drawer in the kitchen. After putting the article away I became angry. Violent. The usual tide of emotions erupting without notice. I picked up my tea mug I had left on the counter and threw it against the wall.

It gave a satisfying thump as it collided with the wall. Shattering. Falling. Pieces on the floor. I didn’t bother to clean it up. I left the mess where it lay. Destroyed.

Why couldn’t I just let it go?

And what was wrong with me that I didn’t want to?

Why did I let this morbidity consume me?

Because I couldn’t let him go.

I was drowning. I was suffocating. I couldn’t see because of the shadows in front of my eyes.

Because it was dark…so dark. I didn’t think I’d ever see the sun.

The alarm on my phone went off, and I took a deep breath. I ran my hands down my face, tucking hair behind my ears, smoothing wrinkles from clothing.

Fix, tidy, collect. Get myself together and move on.

Until I could afford the time to dwell.

Right now I needed to go. I had places to be.

People to become.

Lies sounded like a heartbeat. The rushing of deceit through my veins. It sustained me. It emboldened me.

It was my existence.



“I thought you might be here.”

I closed my book and pushed it to the edge of the table. Our ritual becoming a song. Familiar. Beautiful.

“Hi,” I murmured, glancing up at Dancing Green Eyes as he slid into the booth across from me.

Without speaking, we had given up the pretense of being there for anyone but each other. Elian sat with me as though he had been doing it for years.

It had been two days since our designed meeting in the park. The evening had passed simply. Holding hands and listening to music I hated but Elian enjoyed. And when the band was finished I gathered my things and left.

He didn’t follow.

He didn’t chase.

But I knew he wanted to. He was a man, in many ways, like all the others. He desired. But he had games to play. Pretenses to keep.

He bided his time until he couldn’t control the urge any longer.

And in that way we were one and the same.

Something had changed between us in those hours at the park. Our roles had been decided. And I was giddy with the anticipation of it.

He would never know how I planned.

“You really like that book, huh?” he asked, sliding my copy of Swann’s Way toward him. I itched to stop him. To snatch it back. To hold it to my chest and keep it close.

But I didn’t. I let him pick it up and thumb through the worn pages. Paper smudged with my dirt and tears.

“I’ve never been a big fan of Proust. He’s a little maudlin, too self-indulgent for my tastes.” Elian continued to skim through the book, not realizing how he sliced through me with such trivial actions.

I cleared my throat, finding words that he could understand. “It’s not the words that interest me,” I explained but didn’t explain.

Elian frowned, stopping at the front of the book. The page with the inscription. He looked up at me, thinking he understood now. His face soft and empathetic. To him this was a piece of my puzzle.

He had no idea.

He handed the book back to me. “It’s from your dad,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. He knew the answer. He had seen the words that he thought meant something that they didn’t.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

“Is he still around? Your dad?” Elian asked. Had we come to this point where we were comfortable in asking these kinds of questions?

Yes.

For Elian Beyer, we were approaching an intimate space where we could fall together.

We were strangers. Searching, searching strangers. Looking for each other.

It was sad and perfect.

“No, he isn’t. I don’t know the man that gave me this. He has no place in my life,” I admitted. I covered my mouth to stop the flow of words that came out unbidden.

Elian was dangerous. He made it easy to give him things I had always kept.

Elian nodded, sucking me in, holding me close.

“My dad’s gone too. He died not long after…” His voice trailed off and his jaw tightened. I was fascinated by the minute changes in his appearance as he too found himself sharing things he hadn’t meant to.