Darkheart

The Present: In & Out

Cris's excuse had sucked; she'd been so obviously lying about what'd happened at the diner that Kevin had grown uncharacteristically angry and told Heather they were leaving. Thought I saw someone trying to break into my truck, Cris had said. Came out here to scare them off. No . . . that wasn't what she'd seen. Not with the way she'd freaked out when he'd taken hold of her shoulders, the way she'd pretty much crumpled in his arms. She'd seen something, all right, but whatever it'd been, she wasn't inclined to tell them. And that was stupid--so stupid--considering they were all headed down the same road to destruction. She had no right to keep anything to herself, not anymore, not at this stage, and he was still pissed to think she thought she did.

Kevin knew Cris had never liked him, and he knew exactly why--couldn't even say he blamed her for it. But those parts of the past she still held against him didn't matter, now. He wasn't asking for forgiveness; he didn't want it or even believe he needed it. But he was hoping to be treated with the common decency anyone in their positions deserved.

Screw it. If this was how it was going to be, lies and secrets, maybe he would just walk into that resort and tell them to get it over with. He knew they were there, and he knew where the thing, the core of it all, was. It'd haunted him almost half of his life, possibly before he'd even known it was there, and he was weary of living in limbo, waiting for it to call him back. Pointless conversations and pretend notions of in-it-togetherness were not Kevin's forté.

When Heather dropped Kevin at his old place after their meeting at Mom & Pop's, he paid no attention to her overtures about going into Red Axe, to whatever motel she was staying at. He slammed the car door on her words and went inside, sure he'd find Mike drinking in one of the rooms. The few days he'd been home, Kevin hadn't seen his brother without beer in hand. Whether Mike had been coming or going or working in the garage, he'd been drinking, and as alcohol seemed to dull the man's senses, Kevin had chosen to ignore it, even as he'd noticed his brother screw up all manner of simple tasks (it wasn't his problem if Mike lost customers).

Their childhood home was dreary as anything. Ages ago, when Kevin's mother had been there, the house had been graced with small homey accents--wildflowers in a cup on the table, a couple of ornamental pillows on the couch, cheap decorations on holidays. There'd been attention to furniture placement, a general sense of orderliness, a lack of unnecessary clutter. On occasion the kitchen would smell of something baking, though Kevin's mother had never been the sort to claim mastery over the oven. In short, the house had, even in its somber moments, expressed a gentleness, as if it were there to embrace those within with its mild mothering should they need a sense of security, however faint. But it'd been years since any sort of warmth lingered in the house; no one had been interested in prolonging or reviving what had once been. Perhaps had his mother stayed, or had she chosen to take Kevin with her instead of Russell, he wouldn't be where he now was. No, surely he wouldn't be here. He could've lived forever in ignorance of what actually was.

If only he could go back to ignorance.

But he was too far gone for that, now. His frustration with Cris and with life in general, with thoughts of Lyra and dead cats and Jess and that loathsome donkey-headed phantom he was sure hovered in every angle of Port Killdeer, that had lain in wait for him to return only to mock him in his impotence and apathy--it all drove him toward recklessness.

Kevin should've gone up and taken a shower, fallen into bed, even turned and left the house to go find his own method of deliverance, but he instead walked into the den at the back and eyed his older brother, recumbent in his slovenly manner in a La-Z-Boy, unabashedly watching porn on the dated flatscreen.

Standing in front of the television, Kevin debated saying something--anything. He stood in all his mediocrity, his insignificance, not knowing what to do; he'd gone so long without expressing emotion that he wasn't sure he knew how to do it anymore or even if he'd ever known how to do it at all. And the longer he stood there in uncertainty, the more angry he grew.