Briefly in the second grade I wanted to be a firefighter. I forget what sparked the obsession, but it proved all-consuming to my small seven-year-old self. My mother, in all her viciously affectionate ways, orchestrated a field trip to the fire station for my entire second grade class. We toured their kitchen, the dorms, they let us sit in the truck. I had my picture taken with one of the firefighters, I stuck it on my bathroom mirror along with favorite drawings and other childish things.
The unknown man in the picture was this tousle-haired hunk that thirteen-year-old-me finally took down, threw the picture away in shame after rubbing one out thinking of him. No idea who he was then, who he might be now, he was just a body to hold my unknown desires. I actually don’t even remember the trip to the fire station. It’s just the photo and the story, everyone else telling me I was there. When I think of that day, I can imagine all the things that must have happened even if I don’t remember them. It’s like the day on the boat, how everyone says I wasn’t breathing but I don’t remember that, I wasn’t there to see it. I didn’t live that moment, just my body was there.
I’m not sure why I’m thinking all this as I sit shivering in Aidan’s car. I guess I’m thinking about that firefighter, the strangeness of memory and my own existence, what makes something alive and what it means to be dead — I’m thinking all this to keep from thinking about Cain, because if I think about Cain I’m going crawl into the backseat and flatten myself over him, throw myself on him, rub all over him because I’m completely and totally insane.
I want to fuck a demon, this demon, I want Cain so desperately that I’m sitting here in the front seat of Aidan’s car clutching my knees and shaking. Maybe I’m doing that and thinking all this about memory and desire and want — I’m doing it to cope with the fact I just obliterated a dead thing into something more gone than dead. I rendered that motorcyclist into total nonexistence.
He’s nothing but memory now, he’s in other people’s thoughts — mine — he’s become a body for someone to remember — me, his friends, family, lover, bystanders, the truck driver, the people on internet gore forums and the eventual news reports. He’s a body, a collection of moments, a thing for others to remember being alive or maybe dead, too, just his body being dead. He’ll slowly fade and be forgotten, turn into memories that become only stories, pictured thoughts that seem so real even though they’re not.
I don’t know what I looked like that summer day, lying there unbreathing on the boat. I don’t remember seeing the crystalline sky dotted with fluffy white like I picture in my head. I remember earlier in that day, I remember lots of things about that day, but how much is what I just think I remember, and how much is really me? Who I am, what makes me — me ? Am I only this body, these frantic-running thoughts in my head?
Aidan’s been saying my name for so long in so many different tones and ways that I’m not even sure it’s mine anymore. I have no idea who I am, what is means to be alive or dead, what anything is besides this exact shivering moment where I’m a panting, shaking, numb-staring mess scaring the hell out of my best friend.
He’s lucky I’m not screaming. He should shut up and be happy I’m not all over Cain. I could bolt out of this car. I could climb in the backseat and stroke that hurt line on Cain’s forehead until he wakes up. I could kiss him until he wakes up, call his name, beg and plead or just let him sleep.
I should do something, if not those things, I should do something besides terrify Aidan. I should say something, at least.
“I don’t know.” The words hush as dry ache over my scarred lips.
Aidan goes silent, gets to staring.
“I don’t know.” Like saying it a second time will make it sound less desolate. I’m not trying to deflect, not trying to dodge the question, I’d just lie if that was the case. “I don’t know if I’m okay. I don’t think I am, but I don’t know.”
“Oh.” Aidan’s startled I’ve spoken, taken aback by what I’ve said and how I’ve said it. I don’t blame him.
“I don’t think anything’s okay anymore. I think I’d rather have died. I wish I was the boy who went into the water and wasn’t pulled out in time, wasn’t pulled out at all. I wish I’d never started breathing again. I should have stayed a dead body that day.” Honestly it’s astounding this hollow rasp belongs to me at all, that it’s my voice even capable of saying something so calmly bleak and terrible. “I wish I was dead.”
“Fuck that.”
The leather upholstery squeaks, blankets shift — Cain’s hand grips into the back of my seat, he half-collapses over the console. He’s smearing blood everywhere, all over Aidan’s car, it’s going to look like a murder scene in here.
“Being dead sucks.” He sounds exhausted. He should sound exhausted, he was just unconscious a moment ago. I can’t believe he’s awake.
I’ve plastered myself up against the glove box, the window, I’m terrified to touch Cain or let him touch me because I know I won’t stop. A single brush of our skin, I don’t know what I might do. My fingers dig into the hard plastic of the dash as I stare at him, elated and horrified in turns.
Aidan chokes on something. A word, his tongue, total panic, I don’t know. Then he asks, “Are you okay?” and actually sounds like he wants to know.
I remember the warbled nothing of his voice asking from the Otherside, and I know exactly how Cain’s going to answer. I’m not sure why Aidan bothered to ask. Cain’s obviously not okay.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Why not?” Cain’s blood-streaked forearm slips off the leather as he tries to stay leaned forward into the seats. The ragged cuts over his skin don’t seem real, can’t really still be there to remind me what a monster I am. It’s impossible my nails did such a thing, raked those raw jagged lines into Cain. It looks like I took a knife to him, like my pale curving nails became wicked sharp claws.
That line between his brow is obliterated into a woozy deep frown. He’s trying to hold an angry scowl together like that’ll help him with the rest. His dark gleaming gaze can’t hold mine for long, but he tries anyway. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. Parking lot. Same place we were.”
Each breath seems to hurt him, speaking seems to hurt worse to judge by the way he clenches his fist and jaw both. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” I’m sorry to answer like this, but I’m soft-spoken and quick with my responses at least.
Cain struggles to respond, but I can’t tell anymore if it’s teeth-gritted impatience or agony-driven torment that keeps him silent. His gaze is glassy, mirrored, slurred same as his voice. Everything about him seems out of focus, fragile, I’m scared if I try to touch him my hand might go right through, that he won’t even be real anymore.
“Where — nng.” He sways and fumbles, grips for the seat and then slumps heavily into the console instead. “Where’re you –” This barely-conscious demon snarls and groans, tries to push to even his elbows and can’t. He can’t even finish his question. He sprawls there and pants like he’s catching his breath, like he’s a dog basking in the hot sun or a weary runner at the end of a marathon.
Aidan’s barely blinking, hardly breathing, gripping a white-knuckled terror into the steering wheel. His gaze cuts from Cain to me. I see all the hollow-voiced desolate things I was saying stamped over his face. I’m not sure if I explained the depth of my existential crisis or what I did to the motorcyclist if it would help Aidan understand what’s wrong with me.
I ease into my seat, let myself get closer to Cain. I glance up at Aidan. I don’t want to forget he’s in the car when I touch Cain, when I let myself glide my fingers through his hair. Tentative, scared I’ll wisp through him, but he’s shiver-inducing solid. He feels so warm, even just his hair like this feels heated to touch.
“You’re hurt,” I say softly.
Hoarse, ragged coughs shake out of Cain. I think he’s trying to laugh in my face, although all he’s managing is a sick, weary moan into the cup holder. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s still conscious because of his struggled breathing and stubborn scowl..
I brush my fingers over that pain-driven tight line between his brows, and it has to be my imagination that he seems to breathe easier, suffer less. It can’t be as simple as soothing away Cain’s pain with my touch, but that’s what I try to do. I don’t know what else to do except try to comfort this wounded, weary demon. I’m sure my expression is all kinds of hurt-puppy sympathy, and when I glance up at Aidan again he confirms it. His round-eyed stare tells me just how desperately pathetic I look, sitting here petting at Cain.
I’m not sure if I explained about the firefighter if that would help him understand what’s wrong with me. I could try to explain about what happened on the Otherside, how Cain’s already fucked me once so Aidan shouldn’t look so terrified about how I want it to happen again. I could maybe explain about that awkward not-crush I tried so hard not to have on Aidan. I could remind him of when we kissed, when Cain made me kiss him, and how I told him I was like this. I warned him.
It’s not worth trying to remind Aidan he should have cut me loose hours ago, days ago. I look down at Cain, brush aside his bangs and keep at it, keep touching him like I never want to stop because I don’t. He doesn’t make any effort to move, even though it must be uncomfortable. He’s slung himself into this doubled-over drape between the front seats, when I had him situated as comfortably as I could manage in the back.
“You should lie down again,” I tell him. Whisper it, even though I know he’s still conscious.
The snarled groan I get in reply is a pretty clear refusal. It might have been an effort at telling me to fuck off, or maybe trying to tell me yet again how bad I am at being whatever it is I am. I’m as much a disappointment to Cain as anyone.
I sigh and scratch gently at his scalp. I try not to think about the russet-smeared stains on my hands or the collected skin under my nails, I try desperately not to think about how Cain’s hurt like this because of me.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Heh.” Cain’s head shifts, his eyes stir beneath his closed lids. He can’t even manage to get his head off the console, much less keep his eyes open for more than one long, bleary blink. He’s just barely able to mock me with that single dry chuckle that took him too long, took too much effort. There’s an answer here somewhere, I know Cain has the answer.
A sigh slips from me, passes into the smooth motion of my fingers through Cain’s hair. I shouldn’t bother him with a bunch of questions. I glance at the clock, look to Aidan. “It’s late.”
His hands tense, the hard plastic of the steering wheel creaks. “I can drive.”
He doesn’t even let me get the suggestion out. Either I’m that obvious in what I’m thinking, or it’s that obvious of a need that Aidan knows I have to be thinking it.
“Not forever. Let’s find somewhere. A hotel,” I say.
Aidan goes three shades whiter, his eyes flick to where I’m caressing Cain. “No, that’s okay. I can drive. I’ll just — drive, somewhere.” He shifts the car into gear, glances at me and then keeps his gaze there with an impatient air.
I don’t reach for my seatbelt. I keep caressing Cain as if he were a stiff-still lump of soft black fur in my lap. “I want to wash my hands. I want a shower,” I tell Aidan. “And Cain’s hurt, he needs rest. Come on, let’s just stop for the night.”
Aidan sets his jaw, his shoulders. Stubborn determination drives harshness into the way he says, “No, buckle up. I’m driving.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look this serious about something, except maybe when telling me not to kill myself. I shift my gaze out the passenger window as if the empty parking spot next to us holds anything of interest. “You’ve been driving all day.”
“It’s fine. I’m not tired,” he says. “I haven’t even been up a full twenty-four hours yet.”
“Well, I’m tired. I want to stop.”
“No, we’re going. Put on your seatbelt.”
I’m not sure Aidan’s ever spoken to me this way. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him speak to anyone this way. I remember the first day we met, that Saturday our mothers dumped us on each other so they could go play bridge. His mom had to tell me his name, he was too shy to even get through introductions. He looked half-terrified of me, I thought he was going to cry when our moms left, I can’t believe I’m getting bossed around like this by timid, awkward Aidan.
I don’t know what’s going to happen if we keep fighting about this. We never fight. This is weirder than our argument over killing a cat, although maybe it’s just the same argument after all. Aidan doesn’t want me near Cain, certainly doesn’t want to put Cain and I in the same room as a bed. He’s having a hard enough time keeping me off Cain with the seat division to help his efforts.
Cain’s come crawling over this console just to be near me because there’s no way I’m wrong about this. The more I put my hands over Cain, the more I sit here caressing smooth that pained little wrinkle and he lets me, the more I know it’s working. I don’t have to ask Cain what he needs — he already told me. A hot shower, a bed — me in that bed with him. He was on the verge of collapse, saying sweetheart don’t stop when I was all over him. I can’t be wrong about this. I know how to help Cain.
“Please, Aidan.” I’m shameless enough to beg, desperate enough to plead.
“No,” he says. Snapping and stern, but he’s not angry I guess. He sounds like a stranger. I don’t even recognize the bossy-firm insistence as his. “Put on your seatbelt.”
I ignore him. In the slanted reflection of the window I see him lean toward me. He stops, glances down at the ragged-breath interruption between us that is Cain. After a moment we roll forward even though I’m not buckled. Apparently me smashing through the front windshield in the event of a wreck is less concerning to Aidan than getting the car into motion.
I’m not sure why he thinks that’s going to help him. If anything he’s made his situation worse, because now he needs to stop the car if he wants to stop me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do that he’ll need to stop. More of the same expecting different results, I guess, which I think might be a textbook definition of insanity.
“Please,” I say. I try to sound firm, not angry either, because I don’t want to fight with Aidan. “Just for a few hours. I want to shower, and Cain needs to sleep somewhere that isn’t the inside of a car.”
“S’fine, sweetheart.” Mostly slur and snarl, but he’s distinct and sharp enough I know what he’s trying to say. Cain shudders closer, nudges under my hand, he might have been trying to do something else but that’s what he does. He gets closer to me, that’s his answer for how I can help.
“Aidan, please . I won’t…”
He slides a sideways glance at me for the way the assurance fades into nothing. I can’t promise him that I won’t do anything with Cain. I don’t know what I might do anymore. I slashed Cain’s arms into ribbons without meaning to, I’ve started to cry without meaning to, I keep telling Aidan how much I hate everything about my life when he’s trying so hard to keep whatever part of me he still gets to have in his life. I really am the worst.
I should stop crying. I don’t want to win this not-fight I’m having with Aidan by crying. That’s a pathetic way to win a fight, it’s a monstrous way to do it, I’m a monster for sitting here sobbing just because my best friend won’t let me fuck a demon. My life is so pathetic. I hate it so much. I’m all these mean, vicious thoughts about how much I hate being alive when I realize I’m about to die.
I’m faced toward the window, head turned aside like maybe it won’t be obvious I’ve started to cry. It’s this strange breathless moment, all my hair standing on end, when I see the fast-growing headlights. Either my half-shrieked gasp is enough to warn Aidan or he’s paying close attention, but the sedan’s rumble veers into a roar as we race forward.
That’s just like Aidan, he wouldn’t think to hit the brakes, he’s got the green light and it’s the other car blatantly running the red. We were already in the intersection, he’s reacting under the pressure of being caught in the crosshairs. Maybe he did think about it, maybe he was quick-thinking enough to put the physics of all this together, to realize his odds are better if he goes faster. He’s such a smart kid, a loyal and true friend, he stayed up thirty-six hours straight once to defeat back-to-back finals, he hit that home run, he’s fucking amazing. If we live through this I’ll tell him I’m sorry, I’ll try to explain about the firefighter and that not-crush at thirteen and —
Here’s my life flashing in front of my eyes, all these memories of Aidan because I’m so fucking sorry the last thing we did together is have the worst, weirdest, most terrible fight we’ve ever had as friends. We’re going to get t-boned by this red light-running car, it’s coming right at us, I definitely don’t want to die, I don’t want this to be over, I don’t want to become something that only remembers what it’s like to be alive.
This is it, this is the moment, it’s lasting forever so it has to be my last one. My fingers clench into the heated dark warmth of Cain’s hair. I’m not ready for the shrieking clash of metal and glass, not ready at all for an explosion of sideways-streaking motion. I’m not ready for this to be the end, but it is.