“Departures” is a supernatural thriller and love story published as a serial novel with new episodes dropping every Tuesday morning. Anyone can read or listen for free. Paid subscribers gain early access to new episodes. Watch the trailer or visit the table of contents to browse all the published episodes.
Previously…
In the last episode, before being forced to move out by Gerry, Wild spent the last evening in his rooms above the old Century theater thinking about June and the past. He was surprised when Eileen showed up at his door, not wanting to miss the chance to see his place before it was torn down. She shared the news that she was separated from Boots and had moved back to Atlanta to work on the Evergreen Project with Millie.
The gun was easy to get. It took more foresight and planning to buy groceries for dinner. There had been a longer wait to renew his driver's license two months earlier.
Wild wasn’t even sure what kind it was, a Glock something. He pushed the bullets into the clip, just as the man at the gun shop had instructed him and then shoved the clip into the butt of the gun.
He had come back to his rooms above the Century two days ago, hoping for the distraction of noise, for anything to drown out the multiplying voices in his head but the theater had been dark for the last two days. Escaping the home that stopped being a home over two weeks ago when June left had done nothing to close the gaping wound in the center of his chest.
The room was mostly empty as he had left it on the happy day he packed up everything but a chair and a table to move them into their newlywed house. Now the floor was strewn with fast food trash, cigarette butts, and a liter of beer cans. Sobriety was not useful to him, and it would not help him get to where he needed to go. He wanted to try June again, but there was no phone line hooked up anymore. It wouldn’t matter though. Every call he had placed in the last two weeks either rang indefinitely or was picked up and quickly dismissed by one of June’s parents. He wondered what she had told them but then he supposed it really didn’t matter. The fact that their only child was dying eclipsed everything.
He picked up the bottle of Four Roses and took a long drink. Some of the bourbon spilled into his stubble. Midtown had let him down tonight. It was as quiet and still as a cathedral on a Monday morning. No car horns or sirens or gaggles of sorority girls giggling and weaving down Peachtree. No angry, homeless people shouting. No subsonic bass, thumping, and rattling the trunk of a Camaro. There was only the din of voices in his head growing louder like a gymnasium filling up with bloodthirsty fans showing up to enjoy the spectacle of his ruin.
He set the bottle down on the table and picked up the gun. The violent tremor in his hand made the barrel shake until he put it in his mouth where the cold steel froze his entire body in place. His mind squirmed with the roiling cacophony of voices and teeth tearing him apart. A single tear tracked down his dirty cheek. Every nerve ending in his body screamed like squealing brakes– metal on metal, strobing his vision. He squeezed the trigger to make it stop.
The voices went silent, and the room was so quiet he could hear the blood roaring in his ears. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger again. Click. What the actual fuck? How was this even possible? How could he fail at this most basic thing? He took the weapon out of his mouth and pointed at the wall. BANG! The gunshot was so piercingly loud it made his teeth hurt and he nearly fell out of the chair. Before he could think, he put the gun back in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. No deliverance.
He screamed and hurled the weapon across the room, then fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. The ringing in his ears faded to a thin whistling sound. The single report of the gun and its inability to perform its only job had sobered him instantly. His body tingled with the receding rush of adrenaline and his arms dimpled with goosebumps. He realized he had pissed himself and almost laughed. It was madness and he was only falling further into its dark swirl. Had he really put a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger? Had he imagined that? He sat up and looked at the wall. Six inches above the baseboard there was a small hole blasted in the plaster.
When he stood, he was shaking so badly he had to steady himself using the back of the chair. When the shaking subsided, he retrieved the gun, put it into an old cigar box and placed the box high up on one of the empty bookshelves. He left the bottle of whiskey and all the trash on the floor when he switched off the light and locked the door behind him.
On the street outside, the evening air was soft and felt the same temperature as his skin. He didn’t walk to his car but instead headed South down the sidewalk. When he reached Tenth Street, he turned right, walking parallel to Piedmont Park. Eventually he wandered off the sidewalk and into the park, ignoring the path and opting instead to cut a line straight across the bowl of the grassy meadow. He had no idea what time it was, but the park was empty, and he welcomed the darkness. Above, there was a scattering of stars, sharp and impossibly bright on the moonless night. With each step he put more distance between himself and the man who should be dead. He was alive, for better or worse. There was something freeing in knowing he had no choice.
His jeans were soaking wet, and the urine stung his legs, but he kept walking and eventually forgot the mild discomfort. Soon he was walking through the neighborhood on the tree-lined street where he lived, passing all the houses filled with sleeping people who never thought about life or death. Their porch lights burned hopefully. After another turn, he saw his home, or rather the dark silhouette three doors down on the left where his home would be. As he approached, he wondered why he had never understood or taken comfort in the notion of home. Maybe because he hadn’t earned it or maybe because his parents had amassed many houses but never created one. It was love that made a home.
He crossed the lawn, unlocked the door, and went inside. He was overcome by the familiar smell, the singular smell of a million invisible elements that orbit a life lived with someone you love. Without turning on any of the lights, he crossed the house, went into their bedroom and shrugged out of his dirty clothes. He winced at the ripe stench of himself and went into the bathroom for a shower. Under the hot water, he rinsed himself clean. He allowed himself to cry and it was not mad or desperate but necessary, medicinal. For the first time ever, he understood forgiveness, the absolute necessity of it. Above the rush of water over his skull, he thought he heard something.
“Wild?”
He tried to speak, but his throat closed up and he tried to swallow the lump there. Then he saw her silhouette through the frosted glass. “June, is that you?”
The dark silhouette shed its skin and became almost translucent behind the glass. A moment later, she opened the shower door, closed it behind her, and stepped into his arms without looking at him. Her body pressed to him and her heart beat inches away from his. He wondered if maybe the gun had done its job, and he had crossed over into another dimension or maybe he was just dreaming of her again as he had done repeatedly. He was afraid to move or to talk for fear of breaking the spell.
“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t stay here any longer. I only came back tonight because…” He stopped.
“I’m scared.” Her voice was barely audible.
“I am too. I’m so sorry, June. I know you can never forgive me but…”
“Stop. I don’t need you to be sorry. I just need you to hold me and to promise you won’t let go.”
“Never. I will never let go.”
Finally, she looked up into his eyes and all the information that words couldn’t convey moved between them. What he saw in the shimmery green sea glass of her eyes was his salvation. He could only guess at what horrors she saw because her face contorted and she buried it back in his chest, letting the water wash over her. He could hide nothing from her anymore, his defensive countermeasures were exhausted.
“You’re skin and bones,” she said, feeling his ribs. She pushed away and looked up at him again. “And I can smell the alcohol coming out of your pores. Wild, you can’t go with me. You have to live. I came back because I…”
She began to cry. He cradled her face in his palms and kissed her forehead. When the tears subsided and her face softened again, she hugged him tighter.
“I came back because I want to spend every minute I have left with you.”
They made love in the bed they picked out together when she had thought such a thing would serve them for decades to come. The sex physically hurt her and she grit her teeth to hide this from him because she didn’t want him to stop and pull away. She used the pain to urge him on, clinging to him and pulling him deeper into her. She tried not to think of the cancer spreading inside her. She dug her nails into his back and cried out in pain and anger, hoping he mistook it for passion. Whether he did or not, he finished with a gasp and was still. The raw pain subsided, and she imagined the warmth of him, his lifeforce deep inside her, moving through her, healing her. Why couldn’t he have this kind of magic? She felt his hot tears in the hollow of her neck, and she stroked his hair while she searched for something to say.
In the quiet darkness of their bedroom, she began to realize that every piece of furniture, every towel, every cup, every paint swatch they had chosen, he knew wouldn’t last and yet he had done it anyway. He had done all of it for her because it’s what she wanted. She was filled with a fierce desire to protect him, and it made her angry that she wouldn’t be able to. She could feel his heart slowing and his breathing became deep and measured. He probably hadn’t slept at all since she had left. She didn’t want to keep him awake but every minute mattered now.
“Wild?”
“Yeah?”
“You know I love you more than I thought I’d ever love anyone.”
“I feel the same. I don’t want a world where you’re not in it.”
“But that’s not possible and you know it.”
He rolled off of her and was silent. In the two weeks they were apart, she had replayed all the moments of their life together, making a careful study of all the things he had not said. So, she knew this silence was not agreement and she would not allow herself to believe it was.
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing,” she said. “You can’t. Your story doesn’t end when mine does. That’s not how it works.”
He didn’t speak so she rolled onto her side and turned his face to hers. She had switched on their front porch light when she came home, and the light cut through the blinds producing a skewed ladder across the room and onto the bed. In one of the rungs, she could see his eyes wide and unblinking.
“Do you hear me?” she said. “If you take your life, if you throw it away, I’ll never forgive you. You have to promise me, Wild. Promise you won’t.”
“I promise,” he said.
She was surprised at how easy that was, and she didn’t trust it. He must have sensed her incredulity because he rolled over to face her fully.
“I promise, June.” He kissed her eyelids. “How are your parents?” he asked.
“Devastated. They want me to do all the things. My dad keeps saying we’ll beat it. He’s been up late every single night reading through research and clinical trials information. My mom’s made me go to church with her every day to pray. It’s exhausting to manage their feelings.”
“I bet. I won’t make you do that for me. I want to do whatever it is you want to do and nothing more. If you need to live at home, I understand.”
“Are you kidding? I want to be here with you. And I want to see a few things before I can’t.”
They were silent for a moment. She wondered if he really could manage his grief but then realized he had been managing it for years.
“So, what are you going to do? Did you already start treatment?”
“I’m not going to. That’s another reason why I couldn’t stay with my parents. They think I’ve given up. You know what you’ve given me is actually a gift. Imagine if I didn’t know and I spent the last months of my life in a hospital sick from chemo and radiation. No, I want to live as much as I can. Can you help me do that?”
“Yes, sweetheart. That’s all I want.”
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