Interim(12)

She disappeared into a crowd of girls—just vanished like the whole thing had been a dream. I could hear her high-pitched giggle float across the field, and I wanted to trap it in my hands. Take it home. Listen to it when I felt lonely. I should have tried. I should have tried to trap some of her words, too, because they turned out to be the only ones she’d ever say to me.

He stopped crying three years ago. He thought graduating to high school meant you were a man, and men don’t cry. So it was strange to feel the lump in his throat, and when he swallowed, it involuntarily pushed out a single tear. On the left side. It traversed the bottom of his scar. He felt it slide down to his jaw and hang there suspended. Waiting. He thought bitterly of the parallels, how he was the tear just hanging there. Not sure where to go. Unable to climb back up. Reluctant to drop off and disappear into nothing.

This was not the reaction he was seeking. He just wanted to remember Regan—maybe even smile at her silliness—but all his thoughts and emotions focused on his father and what his father did to him. He shook his head violently and tossed the notebook. He crept to his door and peered out. He could just see into the living room where his father lay in the recliner, snoring loudly.

He snuck soundlessly down the hallway to the safe in the spare bedroom. He discovered the combination long ago, and punched it in with purpose. He snorted at the irony of it all—his irresponsible father the same guy who cared about gun safety. He took out the 9 mm and released the clip. All the bullets accounted for, though he’d only need one. He returned the clip and pulled back on the slide.

“Locked and loaded, motherf*cker,” he whispered.

He walked down the hall and turned the corner. He saw the top of his father’s head resting comfortably against the chair. Years of lying this way—his greasy, black hair nestled into the headrest—had discolored the blue fabric. Disgusting. There was too much about his father that was disgusting, and it was time he took a bloodbath.

Jeremy moved closer and lifted the gun. He gently pushed the barrel against his father’s head, stiffening at the sound of a gurgling grunt. But his father didn’t wake up.

“One, two, three, four,” Jeremy counted silently. “Five.”

Still his father slept.

He carefully moved his forefinger to the trigger. His father taught him that: never hold a gun with your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Safety first. His finger curved around the metal hook—seconds away from freedom—and his hand shook.

“Fuck,” he mouthed, and lowered the gun.

He took a deep breath and tried again, lifting the gun with his finger on the trigger. He closed his eyes and replayed the morning he was late for school. It was raining. He could feel the drops hit his face, slither under the bandage that was hastily taped to his cheekbone. He heard his father’s words over and over: “A baseball accident. You got it? A baseball accident.”

“Okay, Dad,” he replied, thinking the two were entering into a clever conspiracy.

Jeremy dropped the gun a second time. His hand sweat profusely, making the metal slide under his palm. He shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t still the memory, pouring from his eyes in fat tears.

A moan escaped his lips, and his father shifted.

“Jer, you back there?” His voice was thick and sloppy with sleep.

“Yes,” Jeremy breathed. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Get me a beer, will you?”

That was all he needed to hear. He lifted the gun a third time. No more tears. No more shaking.

“You sure?” Jeremy asked. He turned the gun on its side then upright again. On its side and right back up. “You sure?” he repeated.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I want you to be absolutely sure you want another,” Jeremy explained.

“Just get me a goddamn beer,” his father barked.

Finger on the trigger. Just the tiniest squeeze. Wouldn’t require much pressure.

“You hear?” his father said.

Jeremy’s heart constricted, pushing out the fear adrenaline. He dropped his hand a final time.

“I hear you,” he said, backing out of the living room.

He was careful to conceal the gun, though he knew his father wouldn’t turn around. He walked to the bedroom, pondering his failed attempt at freedom. He could only conclude that it wasn’t the right time. He wrote down the date, after all—April 14. He should stick to it, right? He should stick to the plan. Don’t deviate. Don’t revise. That’s how plans get messed up.