Come to Me Quietly(146)

He’d loved it here. Now he’d destroy it, like he destroyed everything.

Out in the middle of the field, he killed the engine. It ticked and the fan hummed. Jared flipped off the headlights.

For a few minutes – or maybe hours – he sat in the dark, shaking, rocking.

Thrashing through the anxiety, he groped for the overhead light. A faint glow crept into the car. He just needed one hit and then he could do this. Jared dug in his bag, drained half the bottle of whiskey to get him to the place where he could get up the nerve, swallowed down five pills when that wasn’t enough.

He hated this. Hated it.

The spoon and the needle and the bag.

But it was all he had.

He found his lighter and balled up the tiny piece of cotton between his fingers. Jared swam. His head was spinning, his mind reeling. And everything was so heavy and so light. Warm.

Jared sagged against the seat, limp, and for a few seconds, he let it go.

But it never lasted long, and he was just so tired… but his mind wouldn’t stop working. He could hear his mom crying, f*cking begging in the bowels of his brain.

He grabbed the gun from under his bag and rammed it in his mouth. His teeth scraped metal, the sound grinding in his ears and grating through his bones. Sweat coated his forehead, slipped down the back of his neck.

I can do this.

His finger trembled on the trigger.

It hurt. It hurt. And he was so scared.

Jared jerked the gun from his mouth and slammed his head back on the headrest. “Fuck,” he cried.

He lifted it to his temple, forcing his finger back on the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging for her. “Mom… I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.” His hand was shaking. Shaking.

Jared couldn’t f*cking stop shaking.

Another handful of pills, the rest of the bottle – numbness and fire and helplessness – it sloshed on his shirt as he drained the last.

He could do this.

But he wanted to see her face one more time.

Numbness weighed him down as he rooted through his bag. He swayed to the left. Shit. Maybe he’d taken too much. But it was okay… it was okay… he could do it. He could do it for her.

He finally found his book in his backpack. Words filled the entirety of the worn journal, his hate and his shame. Snapshots of a perfect life were stowed between the vile pages. He thumbed through to the front, where he kept her picture and lifted it to find the tenderness glowing on her face.

He’d never see her again.

Lifting his lighter, he flicked it and watched as the picture caught fire. She melted before him, disappeared, just like she’d done when he stole her life.

He was just so f*cking tired. Tired of it all. Sleep flitted at the edges of his consciousness. He rammed his forehead on the steering wheel, palming the butt of the gun.

He could do this.

First, he wanted to watch it burn. He set the gun on his lap, flicked his lighter, and let the flame leap and dance along the bottom of the journal. He held it in his hand, felt the heat on his face. Felt nothing. Felt it all.

Flames engulfed the cab and he was drowning.

Falling.

Suffocating.

The bullet wasn’t necessary after all.

He whispered, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”



Maybe now he’d make it right.

Someone was screaming, the voice piercing through his surrender. Jared just wanted to sleep. Hands searched the fire. Dragging. Pulling. Begging.

Air.

Fists pounded on his chest.

Everything burned, his lungs and his skin.