Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

K ira

I have never felt so guilty before in my fucking life. I feel like a runaway bride, but I also feel like a complete imposter who had to run away because she'd been discovered. I've managed to find my way home, just like I always do. No matter how many times I leave this place, I seem to end up here again anyway.

The rocking of the bus intensifies as the quality of the road degrades. The light changes. Gets dimmer somehow, warmer in some other ways. Dust makes everything look a little orange. The bus will be covered in it, and soon so will I.

The screech of the brakes followed by the hard rocking motion that comes with suddenly losing all momentum indicates we've reached my stop. I thank the driver, who grunts at me, and I go down the stairs.

St. Infernus is a town truly in the middle of nowhere. There's nothing here. Not even an actual bus stop sign. Just a bent pole in the ground where the sign used to be and a bunch of broken glass, which feels kind of intentional on account of there's nothing glass here for miles. Doesn't take a detective to work out the mystery, I guess. People get on or off the bus and instead of taking their garbage with them, they turn it into a danger for others.

Kids and animals could cut themselves on this glass. It's a hazard, a stupid, selfish hazard. My eyes start to haze with tears of frustration that have absolutely nothing to do with broken glass in a remote country bus stop and everything to do with regret. I've gone my entire life without knowing anything nice, or having anyone nice. Then, for a very brief period of time, I got to know what it was like to be cared about. To have someone be nice to me, and to have nice things.

It makes coming back here so much worse. It makes everything so much worse, but maybe everything being constantly worse is just how my life is supposed to be.

The stop is six miles from my aunt and uncle's place. I shoulder the small bag, wearing it like a backpack, and head out on foot.

Growing up, I promised myself I'd never come back here if I ever managed to leave. But now I'm grown, I realized there's a part of me that will never be able to leave this place. I am stuck here.

By the time I get to what never really felt like home, I am feeling dehydrated and a little dizzy from misery. I rest against a fence post that used to be part of a fence years ago and look out over the place I could never really escape.

The farm looks like I remembered. Dilapidated. They'd sell it if they could, but it's not worth anything, thanks to the runoff from the mines. Not much grows here anymore, just rough grasses and dirt patches that turn to mud wallows when it rains.

My uncle still tries from time to time, planting corn and sometimes beets. There's a few scrawny sheep and cows doing their best to subsist on the poisoned land. This place is sick, and everybody in it is sick too.

I push off the fence and head around to the front gate. The gate is still there, even if the fence isn't. I use it out of habit, just like I do so many things out of habit.

A cacophony ensues as I open the gate. It swings open with a screech and immediately, dogs come racing across the pothole drive to meet me. There's a few more than last time I was here. My aunt does like to take in strays. They sleep outside, but she feeds them, and that is enough to make them stay around. She gets to feel like a good person, and they offer her protection.

My aunt Ruby follows the dogs out of the house and onto the porch. She is a handsome woman in her late forties. Life and sun has hardened her appearance. She was my mother's sister, and I see myself in her face sometimes. I wonder what my mother would have looked like if she were alive now. Would she have a harsh, hawkish look in her gaze? Would her lips be lined from near constant pursing in disapproval? My aunt's hair was dark like mine once, but it's mostly gray now, with a few darker strands intermittently holding on for dear life. She is wearing a faded floral dress and an even more faded apron.

I come up the uneven, cracked path, a smile hovering behind my lips. I want to be happy to be home. I want to feel welcome. Neither of those things are going to happen.

"Took you long enough," she says. "You need to look after your uncle. Did you bring money?"

"Uhm, yes. Of course."

I swing the bag off my shoulder and reach into the interior. The cash feels like it is burning in my hand as I give it to her. I took this out of Cain's wallet. I stole from the man who wanted me to become part of his pack. I fucked him over in a way I know he'll never forgive me for. He won't be able to trust me again.

I swallow the pain of knowing I've ruined the best thing that could ever have happened to me and give my aunt the money.

She doesn't say thank you. She walks back into the house, leaving the door open behind her.

I follow.

The house is dark and messy. The smell hits me before I even cross the threshold. It's an old smell of stagnant beer and stale cigarettes, matched with my aunt's perfume. I am thrown back a decade or more, made small by the scent. I feel myself become weaker, helpless, indebted.

My aunt has gone back into her bedroom. My Uncle Dale is in the open plan kitchen lounge dining area. His chair has occupied the same spot for as long as I have known him, always surrounded by dirty magazines and old beer cans. They get picked up sometimes, but there's always more. It's like he sheds them, the same way an oak tree sheds leaves. They're his personal detritus. It's gross, but it's familiar.

There's an old brown couch next to him. There's an empty spot in the middle of it, where my cousin usually goes. Colton is Uncle Dale's mini-me, but with more hair. Blonde hair, blue eyes, old fashioned farm boys. Except, without a farm to farm, Colton never really had a chance. He started selling dope before he was out of school. Since then, he's been in and out of jail on a whole host of offenses that should be more serious than they are, mostly because my aunt is good friends with the small police force here. Every now and again, though, they set his bail high enough to make up for whatever cash emergency they're having, and he sits in the cell until my aunt comes up with the money. She's basically being shaken down.

"Look after your uncle," she says as she comes bustling past again.

He doesn't even know I am here. His eyes haven't left the screen since I came in. The second coming could happen, and Uncle Dale wouldn't pull his eyes off the television. His brain is so doused in alcohol, I'm pretty sure he thinks he is in the TV most of the time.

"Uncle Dale?"

He pulls his gaze from the moving pictures, looks at me with glassy eyes, and makes a motion I know the meaning of all too well. He wants another beer.

I get him another beer.

He drinks it.

Dust blows by the window from the eroded yard where dozens of dogs have killed the grass over the years.

I go and sit on the couch in front of the television, temporarily taking Colton's place. I don't fit in his butt print. I sort of sink into it, feeling awkward and out of place. Fortunately, I am swiftly joined by three dogs, none of which I know, all of which need flea and worm treatment. I will go into town tomorrow, where I am sure my aunt will want me to do errands anyway. I pet them and stare at the tv, much like Uncle Dale, not knowing what is on and not really caring.

The past slides up and wraps around me, drawing me down into an uncomfortable numbness I briefly thought I could escape, but now know there is no getting away from. This is who I am. This is what I was made for. And this is all I will ever have.