“Ready Set Go”

To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black. I am sitting in my room staring up at the faded yellow celestial scene painted on the now cracked and brittle ceiling. I want more than anything for it to rain, to pour and pour and wash our little house away.

Mother’s crappy little car pulls up to the house and I jet to the kitchen to get the dishes done before she walks inside. We never talk—mom and I—but I know things can get ugly if my chores aren’t done before she gets home. She comes in, does her song and dance for our dog, Avocado, and collapses on our second-hand couch. Lightning hits nearby, the power flicks, and we are in the dark. I keep washing, Mother is already dead asleep, and Avocado is clawing at the floor and peeing on things. Welcome to my phony paradise.

By morning the monsters of my alarm clock are growling at me to wake up and be eaten alive by the school bus. This “school” is nothing but a box of mindless people who are brainwashed into believing they will succeed if they learn Algebra and do their homework on time. I believe that no one can see me, even though I go every day and do my homework ninety percent of the time. Good boy, now roll over.

I take that risky step off the mustard-colored bus and fall into a sea of (dare I say it?) PRE TEENS. Beware: they can be deadly. I would know, I’m sorry to say I’m one of them... only in my case, I have my own category that has yet to be named because I am the only one in it. It’s kind of cool I guess, no one can say I’m not original.

The sun is shining down on me, burning my eyes and hissing at me for wearing dark clothing. In my head-world, the moon forever eclipses the sun and I can see again, although the rest of the world is drowning in the darkness and crying for salvation. That is my home.

As I walk down the hall flooded with teachers yelling and girls giggling about who knows what, I stare at my target less than twenty feet away: poptarts. I just now remembered that I didn’t eat yesterday…or the day before that…and, oops, did I forget to eat on Friday too? —The cafeteria ladies are nice to me, always ask me how I am and tell me when I’m running low on my poptart money. I half-smile at them and make a mental note to “borrow” more money from Mother’s purse. There is nothing like a cold poptart on a Monday morning with seventy-five minutes of Algebra ahead of me.

I sit in the exact middle of the classroom, right behind a mountain that the adults categorize as a future “Million Dollar Quarterback,” whatever the heck that’s supposed to mean. Our teacher-lady, Miz. Teacher, is going over roll call. It’s been nearly a year in her class and I have yet to learn her name. We’re alike though, in the same almost-year we’ve been forced into the same living environment, I doubt she has taken the time to learn my name as well. “Mr. Theodore? Theodore Guy?” she reads off her parchment roll sheet. I sigh and raise my hand. No need to waste words on whether or not I’m here—everyone knows it’s only my body that is sitting in this broken down yellow school desk. “Hey, Asparagus” the toad behind me whispers, “Why don’t you just say ‘HERE!’ like the rest of us?” I shrug, but don’t bother to turn around. Toad-boy mustn’t ever know that I am not really this so called “Theodore Guy: Human Asparagus”, but a homely broken human-thing that does not find meaning in words, especially words to express whether or not I am sitting in the middle of Algebra one, located in the mind-wiping Jordan Middle School, home of the Jaguar. Nope, not going to bother.

Somehow, I survive English, Geography, History, Science, and Art class, but seventh period PE is what kills me. There should be a law against daydreamers like me being forced to sweat and run and be mocked endlessly by the brainless zombies who enjoy this torment. It is nothing but a war of smelly mixed with a pinch of icky boiled into a concoction I dare not name. To make life worse, our uniforms are a faded green color that contributed to the birth of my other name, “Asparagus.” The clothes hang off my muscleless eighty-two pound body like I am wearing a homeless man’s tent, despite my un-average height of five foot-nine. I am a walking bag of bones draped in tattered green—the Human Asparagus.

By the time I drag myself home it is getting dark and Avocado is at the door waiting to nip at my stained-gray high tops. The note on the bathroom mirror reads: “Find Food—Working late, won’t see you until tomorrow at the soonest.” Sure mom. At the bottom she scribbled: “Clean up your room and give Avocado a bath, she smells like piss.” Is there some kind of parent manual that says you need to tell your offspring to clean their rooms every time you’re too busy to come up with something more creative to say? Why not tell your children to pretend they are wolves and sleep outside in a pile of leaves? Hell, bring the leaves inside and camp in the bathtub for all I care. Anything but ‘Clean. Your. Room.’

Trying to wash Avocado is like trying to find clothes for me. She’s too little to wash in the bathtub and too big for the toilet, so we use the kitchen sink as her tub of choice. I clear out a few month’s worth of cereal bowls and fill the porcelain pool with warm soapy water and add the squeaky rubber-ducky chew toy I got Avocado for her birthday a few years back. She is terrorizing the dust balls at my feet when I pick her up and ease her into the watery prison. She yelps and squirms as I rub baby shampoo into her curly brown fur, careful not to get any in her eyes. I remember doing this when we first found her, she was so tiny and muddy and happy, it’s hard to believe it is the same dog I’m wrestling with now. She splashes water onto the floor and I get pissed, holding her head under the water and not letting go. I watch as she struggles and pushes her little head in every direction in her desperate struggle for air. By the time I realize what I’m doing to the poor old dog, I pull her out of the water and hold her to my chest as I cry with the now terrified Avocado, not caring that I am now soaked and soapy.
I’m starting to see it now. I don’t understand, but I can see what’s going on. Colors no longer exist in my world, everything has faded to pleasant shades of gray that keep me from the headaches of reality. I’m not sure if I should thank the sleeping pills I downed for this, but I like this new dull tone better.

I have been awarded my first detention ever, and in a sick way, I’m kind of excited. I’ve never really been “in trouble” before, so I have no idea what the detention room looks like. I once overheard that most of the people in there spoke in some strange language that only geeks and really smart people know. Other kids say it’s like a jail, with bars on the windows and everything. I imagine a dungeon with shackles on the desks. We shall see.

Seven hours and two fake love letters later, I arrive in the hallway dusted with cobwebs that leads to my “punishment.” I read the doors pretending to look for the right room, but I already know it’s the last door on the left, room 107. Putting on my best worried face, I turn the frozen doorknob and shuffle inside. The first thing I see is a teacher snoozing on the front desk, slouched over and snoring. Very nice. I take a look at the rest of the room, noting the broken and carved-on desks along with the Bean kid gazing out the window. No bars, no shackles, no strange language. How disappointing.

Bean Bean stares at me from her shadowy corner, her glowing eyes give me chills. As far as anyone knows, she’s not a REAL vampire, but her bloodless skin and blonde-blonde hair do little for her reputation. I take the seat farthest away from her and gawk at the noisy adult. I am tempted to do something, maybe stick a piece of chalk up his nose, when a paper ball crashes against my cranium and bounces to the fake-wood surface in front of me. I give Bean a suspicious look, then unwrinkled the wadded blob of lined notebook paper. It reads: “You Asparagus?” in black marker. For a second, I think about ignoring it…however, the sarcasm it promises is something I simply cannot overlook. I take out my number four artist’s pencil and write back: “Shinigami.” then chuck it her way. I hear a snide giggle from behind me as she writes back.

“Sorry, I thought with the hair and all...”

I cringe as I pull my hood up. My longish-wavy hair does not help disprove my identity as “Asparagus.” In a pure evil streak, I scribble the words “Are you a vampire, Miz Bean?” onto the paper and throw it at her as hard as I can.

She reads, thinks, writes back: “Perhaps.”

I sit quietly in my desk for the remaining ninety-seven minutes, not quite sure how to respond. Silence. Why does this not surprise me?

Later, as I walk home in the man-eating darkness, I count the snowflakes falling in my mind. It kind of bothers me when people say that no two snowflakes are the same—just like it is in humanity. It can’t be true though. There are millions of people who don’t seem exactly alike, but when you REALLY look at them, they are the same. Just like the snow.

Glowing gold beams shining from newer-broken cars streak the road around me while I continue to walk—I am a deer caught in the headlights. Unlike the sun, these manmade creations fascinate me. They bring light when the sun lets you down, yet they break and burn out with little to no warning. Amazing.

Morning comes too soon; I forgot to set my alarm so I am woken up by the sound of the school bus’s horn waiting impatiently outside the front door. I am tempted to skip school—I need a break from PE—but with my luck, one of the teachers would drop by on their mid-morning break and drag me to school in my pajamas. I heard that that actually happened to a kid once, sounds kind of creepy if you ask me. I pull my hooded sweatshirt over my batman PJ shirt and search the floor for my jeans and high tops.

Bean Bean is waiting for me outside the front door of the school. We are the only two dressed in clothes that cover, the eighty-eight degree heat is starting to get to the rest of the town. She holds out a bag of poptarts with two fingers, and I glare at her. “Don’t try to feed me.” I growl, and she rolls her eyes. “Shuddup, dork. I know you’re hungry, I could hear your stomach growling as soon as you stepped off the bus.” I glare more and snatch the bag to keep up appearances, but really, I’m grateful—I ran out of money yesterday morning and Mother went on a “business trip” and won’t be back for a few days.

School goes by as it always does, Teachers ask questions, I sink in my chair and pretend not to hear them. The Smart Kids geek up the air and start on a vicious rampage on who is smarter—teacher or student (and I have no doubt that they will win—the teachers in this school back off too easily.) Miz. Teacher is the only one who puts up a fight—she and the Smart Kids argue back and forth over subjects I’ve never heard of until the bell rings. I must remember to send out Thank You cards.

Just as I am about to mope into the locker room to change for PE, a chalky-white colored hand grabs my hood and hauls me out the door. I am not sure if this is a rescuing or a kidnapping (because I am walking backwards) so I try to be nonchalant as I am being pulled into the blinding sunlight outside of the building. Thirty feet later, once we are across the street and out of sight, the Hand lets go and I am allowed to turn around. Bean stares at me as she chews her sugar-free gum. I stare back; still shocked that she had enough guts to pull me out of school when we both know that nothing gets past the office’s security cameras. She slides on her Ray Ban sunglasses and watches the traffic roll past us. I stare more.

“Whatcha looking at, Greeny?” she says between chews.

I still can’t say anything—this girl is freaky—more than freaky, if possible. She kicks the sidewalk and bitches under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “Y’think a guy would be happy to get out of PE. It’s only ONE CLASS, it’s not going to kill you.”
She’s right, I guess. It won’t kill me.

“So tell me,” she says as she watches the other side of the street, “How long have you lived in this godforsaken town?”

“Close to forever.” I tell her while pulling at my sweatshirt. I’d take it off, but I’m not up for criticism about what I’m wearing underneath it. “Didn’t you just move here?”

Bean nods. “With my dad. He said he got some kind of ‘fabulous job’ that will help pay off all our debts or whatever. I think he was just following some babe he met. He hasn’t worked a day since we got here a few months ago.”

I give her a questionable look. “Months? …but you just started school a couple of weeks ago.”

She shrugs. “I’m too old to be in sixth grade, not smart enough to be in eighth, so they shoved me in seventh. What about you? You look like you should be out of high school.”

I frown at her. “I’m not even thirteen yet.”

Her jaw drops and I can see a wad of pink at the back of her mouth. “But you’re a giant! Eight feet tall, at least! Man, that’s not fair. I want to be tall enough to squish anyone who pisses me off…”

“Mother said my dad was taller that I was at this age—some kind of genetic defect. It’s not fun.”

Bean pulls down her sunglasses and looks me over with her steely-blue eyes. “I still think you are older than you’re letting on, but it doesn’t matter.”

I suddenly realize what is going on and give her ‘the look.’ “Why did you drag me out of PE? We’re both going to get detention for this.”

With a glare, she shakes her head. “Remind me never to help you again, you whine too much.”

“I thought you were the ‘loner’ queen.”

“Go away.”

I can tell I’m upsetting her, but I can’t stop. “What’s that? Bean Bean isn’t really the dark vampire we all thought she was?”

“Go the fuck away, Asparagus!” she yells through tears hidden behind her sunglasses. I watch her run into the afternoon’s gaudy blast of light.

By the time Mother gets home, it is well after dinnertime and she smells like old dead grapes. I don’t know if she’s drunk, but she kicks at Avocado as soon steps in the door. “Goddamn work made me stay late!” she yells at no one in particular. “I give and give and give, but what do they ‘give’ me back? Overtime! Goddamn overtime without pay. The bitches’ don’t know what they’ll be missing when I find a better job and leave their sorry asses.” She looks cold and dead when she drags herself into the bathroom and slams the door. I check to make sure Avocado is okay, then hide in my room for the rest of the night.

The next few days with Mother are not quite…pleasant. She is sure that work will beg for her to come back if she calls in sick enough. I am sure she is going crazy locked in her room without windows or fresh air. Is this some kind of middle-age panic attack? I lean against the door of her room, listening for any sign of life. Come on, mom. I know you’re in there. Get up, move around, get something to eat, anything. I don’t care. Just let me know you’re alive.

Ding-a-linging sounds coming from the front door shift my attention to whoever’s waiting outside. They ding-a-ling again and then pound on the door impatiently. I bend down to take a look out the peep-hole—it’s some man I’ve never seen before. He has roses. I don’t want to let him in. “Millie?” he yells in a scratchy-old voice. “Millie, why haven’t you been around lately? Are you sick? Please let me in, Millie.” I stare at the man for ages before I open the door. We gawk at each other for a few seconds before he ‘ahems’ and asks who I am. I glare and ask the same thing back. He slicks back his imaginary (thinning) hair and says “Oran Moody. Are you…Theo—Theo-something?”

“Theodore. Thee-o-dore. May I help you?”

Moody nods. “I’m looking for your mum. Is she home?”

Say no. Shut the door. Don’t let him in. “Maybe.” Dangit, why don’t I ever listen to myself?!

“May I see her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just figured out where my mom was when she went on her ‘business trips.’ Didn’t she tell you she’s still married? My dad’s coming home any day now. He won’t be happy when he finds out about you, so maybe you should just leave.” I shut the door and lean my back against it. With my eyes closed, I watch my Father die again. I watch him from my second story window, tying the rope to the old oak tree in the back yard. I can’t move. Breathing isn’t an option. All I can do is watch.

“Who was that?”

I open my eyes immediately to the sound of Mother’s voice. “Um,” I don’t want to tell her what happened, “It was a pizza guy who got lost.” She stares at me with her green-green eyes that are the same as mine. Her hair is tangled around her shoulders and runny black stuff is smeared below her eyes, tissues are clenched firmly in her hand. Avocado attacks the hem of her nightgown, making us both gawk at our strange little dog.

“What’d you feed her?” Mother asks with a stuffy-nose voice. “Cotton candy? She’s too hyper. Maybe we should give her away…”

This is the Mother I know. ‘The Mother’ who only lives for herself, the woman who has a hidden half that only I see.

Vicious mean brutal ugly must escape.

I grab Avocado and run.

There is something about the late night’s air freezing your lungs that makes you wonder if you’re breathing in water. Maybe it’s because of the rain. Or maybe my mind is trying to drown me. It’s sad to think that you may not be safe inside your own imagination. You can’t live in a world that is trying to kill you.

Avocado is under my shirt, shivering and crying and I’m worried she’ll get sick. I should have just locked her in my room. The night’s wrath is no place for a little dog who did nothing wrong. I should be able to drown if I tilt my head to the heavens and pray to Shinigami to make it quick.

I walk past a store and glance at my refection in the window. A pathetic looking me stares back with red eyes. The rain saved me from discovering my tears, who would have guessed?—but it really doesn’t matter, I just need to sleep now. More importantly, I need to get Avocado out of this watery mess before she drowns too. Somehow, I push myself back to our cruddy doorstep and try to turn the old doorknob. From the window, I see the curtains move; Mother does not unlock the door. I hear her walking to her room, dragging her feet and slamming the door multiple times. I take refuge in the car until morning.

By the time I am awake, the sun is shinning and I am stuck to the plastic seats in the car. It’s boiling in here, I don’t know how I didn’t wake up sooner. I feel Avocado’s wet body against my chest, she’s barely breathing. It’s Tuesday and school started an hour ago, but instead of being “educated” with pointless things I probably already know, I wrap Avocado up in a blanket and head to the vet. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for her visit, but she needs help—now.

I’m running—really running—as fast as I can, looking at the names of stores as I pass them. I know there’s a vet around here, I just need to find it. Book store, hotel, cross the street, dollar store, grocery store, ice cream shop, human-doctor. I see Bean and some older guy, maybe her dad, walk out of the doctor’s office, but I don’t have time to stop and talk. I know the vet is on the very last block in town—I need to keep going.

I get in the air-conditioned building and fill out the required papers while Avocado sits motionless in my lap. We wait a few thousand years and finally a vet comes out to examine her. He picks her up, looks under her eyelids, listens to her heart. With a fake-sad smile, he pats my shoulder and hands her back without saying a word. I hold her close to my heart and close my eyes, yelling at myself for taking her out in the rain last night, then accidentally baking her in the car this morning.

It was my fault.

Avocado is dead because of what I did.

I don’t know what to do. Should I go home and bury her body? I don’t want to put her in a shoebox. I want to give her a proper funeral with a casket and everything. I want her to be happy, wherever she is.

I want to see her alive and well again.

Walking aimlessly with a lifeless body is a great way to call attention to yourself. People stare, but are afraid to ask you what happened. It’s artsy. I could sell my childhood friend for a ton of money to some sick art dealer. They’ll love her until she starts to rot. I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. I walk past the graveyard, looking for the see-through nothings that haunt their spot in the ground. I wonder if Avocado is with them, playing in the afterlife.

“Hey.”

I look up from the broken headstones and see Bean. What a surprise.

“You ditching school?” she asks and comes closer to pet the Dead Body.

…school… “Yeah, I guess I am. How about you?”

“Same,” she says, taking a closer look at Avocado. “Doctor’s appointment, you know. Had to ‘get rid’ of something.”

“Get rid of what?” I ask without really thinking.

Bean blinks. “It was something I should’ve never had.” She says quickly then changes the subject. “Why are you carrying a dead dog, Asparagus?”

I pull Avocado toward me defensively. “She’s my dog.”

“Oh…” Bean says in a soft voice, almost lost in thought as she pets behind Avocado’s tinny ears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” She sighs. “Are you going to bury her?”

I nod. “As soon as I can find something worthy of sending her to the afterlife in.”

“I have just the thing, follow me.” Bean says and heads to the trailer park. We reach her ‘home on wheels’ and I’m a little uneasy—I don’t want to go in, but I don’t want to be rude either. “It’s okay.” Bean nods, “My dad won’t be home for a while.” I follow her inside.

Bean’s bedroom is the literally the kitchen, TV room, and dining room all in one. Her old blue quilt is folded at the end of the couch; a stuffed hippo sits on top of it. “I’m home, Wolfy,” she says to the hippo and takes out a wooden box hidden behind it. I look at the piles of clothing laying all over everything and wonder where her mother could be. She opens the box and dumps a pile of old paper and pictures onto the seat beside her.

“This is my life,” Bean says to the hippo, or me—I’m not quite sure, “My mom put everything in here, even my birth certificate is in this mess somewhere.” I look at one of the pictures. A woman with glassy-blue eyes stares back. She smiles softly and cradles a bundle of blankest in her arms—I’m guessing it’s Bean in there. “Is this your mom?” I ask her, still looking at the picture. She doesn’t need to look up to answer me. “Yeah, all of the pictures in here are of my mom.” She pulls a rubber band around the pile of papers and hands me the box. It’s kind of heavy and smells like cedar, and there are lilies carved into the lid.

“Are you sure you want to let Avocado have this? It looks expensive.” I ask Bean as she hides the pile of papers behind her hippo.

“Yeah,” she nods, “It’s part of my past that I don’t want to remember—and besides, you can’t just put the dog in a shoebox. The inside is lined with velvet too, so she will be comfortable.”

I open the box and run my fingers over the soft crimson covering its walls. “Why don’t you want to remember this part of your past? Did something bad happen?”

She frowns at me, I don’t think she going to answer. “The lilies on the top remind me of my mom,” Bean says quietly. “She originally named me Lilly, then got the box for all my important stuff—baby booties or whatever.” It sounds like she’s going to cry. What should I do? Would it be rude to ask about her mom? I can’t help it, I have to ask.

“Is your mom…‘gone’, Bean?”

Her eyes are red, but she’s not crying. “Yeah. She died a few years ago.”

I nod, thank her for the box, and leave.

I do not mention my Father.

When Mother gets home, she says goodbye to Moody and gives him a long, salivay-kiss. I gag from behind the bush I’m digging under. Mother-beast sees me there and ‘calls me into the house for dinner.’ I want to take the shovel with me, but she won’t let me in the door with it.

Inside the house is like another world. Things are dark—not the good kind of dark—the kind that made me pee my pants when I was little. I watch Mother pull up a chair, then feel her manicured nails dig into my skin as she pushes me down in it.

“Where were you last night, sweetie?” she hisses. I don’t answer. She smacks the back of her hand against my cheek and asks again.

“You locked me out, remember? I had to sleep in the car.”

Wrong answer. She whack-smack-punches me again, and I curl my fingers under the bottom of the chair’s seat so I don’t fall over.

“Don’t give me that bullshit answer!” she yells. “I know you didn’t go to school today—the nice man at the store said he saw you with a girl. What were you doing? And why would a girl want to be around you anyway? You disgust me! You’re a disgrace to me, AND our family. It’s no wonder your father is dead.”

I close my eyes. Where are you, dad? Can you hear mom? She’s mad at me again—I don’t know if I should fight back this time. Is this how you felt too? …Alone?

Mother hits me again; I can taste blood now. She calls me a murderer, a pig, a monster. I look into her eyes, trying to find the mommy I love while she screams nasty things at me. Somewhere in there she has to know that this is not okay. With her broom she hits my chest and stomach. Maybe the mommy I know died. She works her way down. I will be urinating blood for a few days.

A few hours later, Mother is motherly again and I limp up to my room. I want to give Bean something for the box, but I don’t know what could possibly be good enough. If she wanted something to bury her dog in, there’s no way I’d give her something that belonged to my Father. It must have meant a lot to her—I can’t help but wonder why she would give it away. I chew on my pencil as I think of what to repay her with. Sketches of lilies line the margins of my English homework. Bean doesn’t have very many friends. I color their petals dark—black lilies. She doesn’t talk much either. I make it rain in pictures. That’s were I’ll start.

I will be her friend.

I go to school the next day, covered in my dark clothing. No one must see the bruises. Bean is not waiting for me outside the front door like she normally is. I go all day without seeing her, so I stop by her house once the hell-filled day of classes for ‘gifted’ kids is over.

Knocking on the door, I note the silvery truck parked next to the Bean’s square of grass (a so-called ‘yard’). Lilly-Bean’s father is home. He opens the door and glares at me with fire in his eyes. I ask if I can see Bean and he gets angry. “She’s not around, now leave before I call the cops on you for trespassing!” I can see blood vanes popping up from his neck. He smells like beer, and I’m worried that something’s wrong. I want to push past him and take a look around because I know he’s hiding something. He has ‘the look’ that Mother gets when she’s standing over the freshly broken me.

Mr. Bean growls.

I hesitantly leave.

Class is boring. I don’t need to pay attention to get good grades; I don’t need to do homework to keep those good grades up. I need to get out of here. Life sucks. Bean hasn’t been in school. I don’t bother going to PE anymore. Mother has been calling in sick for so long that she is in danger of losing her job. I haven’t been eating much lately. I need to learn a way to tame my stomach’s growling.

It’s been fifteen days since Avocado died and since I last saw Lilly-Bean. I stop by to see if she’s home every now and then, but yesterday their trailer wasn’t there. They must have moved. Lilly-Bean didn’t even bother to tell me about the disappearing act.

I need to go for a walk.

In our driveway, Oran Moody’s car sits patiently waiting for him to return. He is in the house with Mother, drinking up a storm to celebrate their recent engagement. He started calling me ‘son’ the other day. I wish I had house keys to scratch up his beloved vehicle.

It starts to rain on my way to nowhere, an icy awakening to reality. I walk past our town’s local newsstand and read the bold headline that takes up most of the front page.

“FATHER ACCUSED OF RAPE AND MURDER OF WIFE AND DAUGHTER”

Below is a picture that looks a lot like Lilly-Bean’s ‘home on wheels.’ I recognize a gray truck parked next to it.

My stomach is on fire.

I pay for the paper and read the article continuing on page two.

“Police were called to the scene by the daughter, Bean Bean, who somehow survived a brutal attack from her father. Neighbors say they often had male visitors in the middle of the night, and the muffled screams, believed to be Bean’s, were heard frequently the day before the murder.

Bean died shortly after the paramedics arrived.”

I scan the rest until I see the word ‘doctor,’ remembering Bean’s visit the last day I saw her.

“Mr. Bean had recently taken his daughter to the teen clinic for an abortion, the doctor performing the task said he had his suspicions about the father, but could not prove that Mr. Bean was indeed the unborn baby’s biological father due to confidential rights.”

It goes on to talk about the mother who was thought to have committed suicide, but was now believed to have been murdered by someone who hid an overdose of aspirin into her food. She was pregnant too, the autopsy said it was a boy.

Lilly-Bean would have had a little brother.

And the father is only now being suspected for this. Bastard.

At the very end of the article it reads “Mother and daughter suffering the same fate, their world a living hell, but they were brave until the very end.”

I leave the paper where the Bean’s trailer used to sit and head home.

Mother and Moody aren’t there.

I go to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet, looking for something to dull my headache. All I can find are Mother’s prescription painkillers—I finish off the bottle and drag myself to the bathtub, turning on the cold water and watching it pound against the porcelain below. Climbing in, I don’t feel the wet cold water soaking my clothes. All I feel is a fuzzy headache. I just want to sleep.

When I close my eyes, I see Father—not the dead father that haunts me—but the loving man I knew so well. He is smiling and holding Avocado, they look happy to see me. I’m happy to see them too—I can’t stop the burning hot tears in my eyes from falling.

I suddenly remember dad’s old pocketknife is resting in my own pocket now; its chipped metal blade hasn’t been used in ages.

Father stares at me, saying it’s okay. He’d be happy to see me again.

I fish the knife out, hold it to my wrist, slicing through deeply in one cut. I struggle to do the same with the uninjured wrist as my blood mixes with the clear water below…

Hey dad, is Lilly-Bean with you too?

I know she is.

I watch the bathroom light fade to gray as I continue to bleed.

I’m coming dad

All I have to do is close my eyes and jump…

Ready

Set

Go