Come to Me Quietly(144)

Jared raked his hand through his hair as he pressed up against the wall, searching for courage. But there was no courage. There was only pain and the throbbing call of the debt he knew he had to pay.

Jared shoved off the wall, dropped his backpack to the ground, and jerked the shirt from the front pocket. He wrapped it haphazardly around his hand, pinching his eyes closed as he sucked in the stifling air. He slammed his fist into the small, square garage window.

Glass shattered. It crashed as it fell to the concrete floor.

“Shit,” he hissed quietly, jerking around to peer into the distant darkness. From down the street, a dog barked, but no one even seemed to stir or notice his presence.

Jared turned back to his task, wincing as he unwound the bloodied shirt from his hand. He softly groaned as he did his best to ignore the stinging ache. He didn’t have time to be distracted.

Jared knocked the rest of the jagged pieces of window glass free with this elbow. The few remaining clattered to the floor. He gathered his bag from the ground and tossed it inside. Grunting, he wedged himself through the narrow hole.

Inside, the garage was dark. Only the dimmest moonlight spilled in through the window that had given him entry. He plucked his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, making his way inside the house. A dull overhead light illuminated the kitchen, and Jared quickly crossed through and down the hall.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He flicked on the light in the den. Two worn recliners faced an old television set, and family pictures lined the walls. Jared trained his attention on his goal because he couldn’t look at all those faces smiling, all that family and joy. Not when he’d destroyed his.

Against the far wall was an antique gun cabinet. The solid wood was polished and detailed, the glass panes etched. Housed inside were Mr. Ramirez’s guns, two rifles, a shotgun, and a large handgun. He’d shown Jared once, told him the story behind each one.

Fear slicked like ice just under Jared’s skin, and his heart beat erratically as he stared at them. It didn’t matter that he was scared. His mom had been scared, too. He’d seen it. Felt it.

Jared inched forward and turned the old rustic lock. It clicked and gave way, the doors yielding to the call. Jared took the handgun from its case. It was so heavy and cold. He swallowed hard before he rummaged around and found the right bullets, held his breath as he loaded it. He shoved it in the front pocket of his backpack.

Jared was heading back through the kitchen when he heard the garage whine shut and the slam of a car door. He froze. He clutched his bag to his chest, his eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape.

Five seconds later, the door he’d come in through opened. Joe Ramirez gasped, his feet faltering below him.

“Jared?” he said more in shock than in question. He blinked away his stupor. “What are you doing in here?”



Jared fumbled in the front pocket of his backpack and brought out the gun. He pointed it at him.

What am I doing… what am I doing… what am I doing? Jared chanted in his head. Sickness swirled in his gut, pressure building in his head.

“Come, now, Jared. Give me the gun.” The old man watched him with outright sympathy and a twinge of fear. “I know you don’t want to do this. I know you.”



Harshly, Jared shook his head, unwilling to listen to what Joe said, the gun trembling as he held it out in front of him. “Just… just sit down in that chair.” Jared’s tongue darted out to wet his dry, cracked lips, that void in his veins screaming out to be filled.

“Jared… ” Joe took a step forward, a placating hand stretched out in front of him as if it could do something to mollify the anxiety twisting Jared in two.