Page 55 of Shut Your Mouth

“Morning,” I mutter, the word dry, distant, like it doesn’t belong in my mouth. I wave her toward the living room. My father doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked on the space where I’d been standing moments before, like he’s still watching the space where I stood.

I feel it too. Like I’ve split. One of me left behind under his gaze, frozen in place.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I have errands to run.”

She nods, already unpacking her bag. I don’t wait for pleasantries. I grab my keys and coat, pulling the front door open. “You’ll be happy to know all the equipment was delivered yesterday after you left.” I slam the door closed behind me. The air outside slams into me, but it does nothing to clear the static building in my head. My thoughts feel wet. Slow.

The cabin.

I need the cabin.

I need somewhere quiet enough to scream.

The drive unspools in a blur of gray. Trees claw the sky with bony fingers. Shadows twitch at the edges of my vision. I don’t blink.

By the time I reach the cabin, my hands are trembling on the wheel, white-knuckled, the tips of my fingers numb.

Inside, the smell of smoke and ash wraps around me like old skin. It’s the only place that doesn’t lie to me.

I pace.

One side of the room to the other.

My boots thud like war drums.

Nathan Kerr.

Dennis Harper. Virgil Wolfe. I see them, limp, wet bodies. Gasping, and gargling blood. Their mouths trying to form apologies or prayers. I couldn’t tell which.

I taste copper.

My chest heaves.

I grip the counter, nails sinking into the wood like claws.

“What did I miss?” I whisper.

I planned everything. I made sure they had no roots. No one to search. No one to mourn.