Only The Trees Know, page 4
When I finished, I made my way to the front of the house and stumbled through the students blocking the entrance. The girls ignored me but the dudes either high-fived me or offered me fist bumps with variations of, “What happened to your face, man?”
“Door,” I repeated several times as I made my way through the crowd, forcing myself not to touch the split lip in question.
“Dude,” one said clearly impressed, “that was one hell of a whack.”
“Sure was,” I agreed.
He nodded sagely as only a drunk person could, pointing his cup toward my face to emphasize his point. “Drink a lot, dude, and it won’t even hurt.”
I’d already planned on it. In fact, I was halfway to that goal. I just nodded and fist bumped him and kept heading toward where they’d set up the keg. No one stopped me or said I didn’t belong.
The frat house smelled like rotting food and stale beer with an underlying aroma of gym socks. With this many guys living in one place I supposed it was inevitable. A thin layer of dust covered everything. It had been decorated as if the frat had money—expensive oversized couches and glossy high-end furniture—but it all had been destroyed. Even the carpet was darkened by stains.
There were a lot of people crammed inside the living room and kitchen. Bodies gyrated against each other to the pounding music. It was too much for my inebriated senses. The slowness of my thoughts could not catch up with the activity around me. I pushed my way through the living room determined to find what I came for.
I grabbed a cup and filled it, standing beside the keg while I drank it. Then I refilled it and moved on. It was stuffy inside so I headed out the back door, looking for someone who was dealing.
There were just as many people in the backyard as inside. It felt less claustrophobic, though. Lights had been hung on poles, their wiring crisscrossing the open space. They were the kind that came from a big box store, with old-fashioned lightbulbs that glowed yellow.
I stayed near the perimeter of the group scanning the drinkers, wanting to appear as if I belonged while not participating in any conversation. No one looked to be selling. At this point I had a knack for picking the dealers out. I was either too early or this was probably a sports frat or something where they had to get piss-tested regularly.
While they didn’t seem to be indulging in substances, these kids acted free, as if they didn’t have life looming over them. They lived like they were fearless, unafraid of anything. I couldn’t tell if it was real, and yet I envied it regardless.
Maybe I could have this kind of freedom if I could figure out how to get away from my family. Though I doubted my father would easily let me go, even for college. His father had never let him go. I couldn’t expect any different. The reins seem to be tightening the older I got.
There was another keg outside. I wandered over to it and filled my cup again in spite of the fact that the beer had begun to sour in my stomach. The more I swallowed, the worse it twisted and churned. I opened my mouth to take in huge, panting breaths. My brain throbbed inside my skull, making my eyes hurt. I needed to lie down and stop the world from spinning.
It was inevitable at this point that the beer would make a reappearance. And quickly on the heels of that, I’d probably pass out. This was not the place to do either of those things.
I stumbled around the corner from the back yard into the side yard. My feet wouldn’t do exactly what I told them to. I swayed and almost fell several times.
The same couples from before were there. Still involved in their sexcapades. One boy called out to me when I weaved past. “Where are you going, man?”
I didn’t respond. My focus stayed one hundred percent on my feet, urging them to act like I wasn’t in need of assistance.
“Be careful of the cops,” he called after me. “The campus police will harass anyone they think is drunk.”
I heard his warning but it didn’t register. Not now when I felt as if I were moving underwater. Muffled voices lingered on the periphery and I couldn’t clearly see the path in front of me. Nodding, I continued on walking for some time.
The next thing I knew, I found myself on the green, a grassy area on campus where kids would hang out between classes. It was a little smaller than a park and dark this time of night, which made it perfect for me to use it as a crash pad.
It’s not as if I’d made the decision consciously. I couldn’t hold myself up any longer. There was a sloping hill where it met the path that lead toward the library. I headed there and fell on the grass. It was a little dewy, wetting the back of my shirt.
It was quiet here away from the commotion of the frat parties and sliding into the cusp of three a.m. Only the sound of the early morning birds intruded on my consciousness. I floated as I lay on my back and watched the stars dance in the lightening sky.
The squawk of a radio shook me out of my meditative stupor. I opened my eyes, surprised at how much I could see. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize the light came from a directional spotlight shining near my feet.
I pushed myself up into a partial sitting position, leaning my weight onto my left arm. Blinking a few times, I followed the path of the light to where it narrowed to a car. I could faintly make out the stickers on the side of the door labeling it as a campus police cruiser.
A man stepped from the far side of the car. He was backlit so I couldn’t see him very well at first. I realized when he got close that he was youngish with a baby face, maybe only a year or two out of college himself. His uniform looked coplike with a shiny badge and a sewn-on logo designating him as campus police. He swaggered like he was a gunslinger in the OK Corral, one hand on his hip where his Taser hung.
My arm gave out and I laid back into the grass. The last thing I wanted to deal with was a bunch of bullshit from a baby almost-cop. I didn’t even know if I could speak coherently. Plus, did he have any authority anyway? My mind was too clouded to make sense of it.
The cop shined a light in my eyes, back and forth from one side to the other. “What happened to you, son? How’d you get the shiner?”
Squinting, I blinked several times before I turned away. The movement made me sick. “I fell.”
Cops couldn’t be trusted, real or fake. Especially ones like this douche who stood over me like he was The Authority of The Universe. They never did anything to make my life better. Asking questions and then not believing anything I said. I’d tried before and I’d given up.
Telling the truth never helped. That wasn’t how it worked. My father was the prime example of never being held accountable. He’d beaten me countless times and not once had they investigated him for it. Either they didn’t believe me, or he paid them off. I didn’t know. All I knew is that if I talked about it, the abuse would get worse. So I certainly wasn’t going to tell this guy.
While the cop looked me over, I tried to think of a way out of this. If he called my parents or if he hauled me down to the station (if the campus police even had a station), I’d have to face my father’s wrath. He’d kill me for this.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough,” I said belligerently. Even I could hear the slur to my words. I didn’t care. Here was yet another person who swaggered into my life and expected that I’d just obey when he knew nothing about how he was ruining my life. It was bullshit.
I let out a belch, tasting aerated beer and the backwash taste of alcohol vomit. There was still air stuck inside my lungs. It felt as if it had expanded, a balloon in my chest that cut off my intake of oxygen. I banged my fist against my sternum several times.
The cop made no move to help me. Instead he kept his hands on his hips, thumbs stuck in his belt. The lack of compassion proved exactly how trustworthy he was. I wondered if he would stand there and let me die if it came to that.
Finally, the air released and I gasped, leaning forward onto my hands and knees. I sucked in breaths trying to fill my deflated lungs. Until there was nearly too much making my head feel light and my stomach threatening to retch again.
“You okay there, son?”
Obviously not.
I opened my mouth and no words came out. Instead I picked my head up to glare.
“Don't die on me. Too much paperwork.” He laughed at his own joke. Then his hands were on me. He extracted my wallet from my back pocket. Flipping it open, he shifted through the contents and pulled out my brand new paper license that I’d gotten that afternoon and a small packet of weed.
I let out a frustrated exhale. The weed wasn’t that big of a deal. It was legal here if I were twenty-one, which I was not.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Harrison.”
I grunted.
“You sit right there,” he told me before he stepped away and spoke on his walkie.
I fell onto my back, letting the world spin.
Chapter Six
NOW…
Itook my time pouring myself a cherry Slurpee inside the mini-mart at the gas station. My hand shook, dripping the red slush onto my wrist. I licked it off before popping the domed lid onto the cup and then unwrapped a scoop straw.
My back was to the wall of windows overlooking the pump area. I’d pulled a ball cap low, to just over the arches of my brows, keeping my face hidden as much as possible. I knew I was being watched. They were probably taking pictures as well. Today this attention was what I wanted, though I needed the run-in to look accidental.
The impending media confrontation wasn’t what had my hands shaking. No, it was the person I could see from the corner of my eye. I knew without turning my head who it was. Even if that “person” wasn’t real.
Sometimes Liam visited me. He made a nuisance of himself, popping up at the least opportune times. Impossible, yes, because he was dead. He’d whisper to me—warning me, or giving me encouragement, or telling me he loved me.
Maybe I really was crazy. There were days when it seemed like the only logical explanation. I felt a lot of sadness and I hadn’t worked out those feelings. It didn’t take a genius to psychoanalyze why this was happening.
Today was about him, so maybe I’d spontaneously created Liam from memory. Using him as a crutch to get through this encounter.
Taking a deep breath, I tried not to acknowledge him in any way. Failing, I couldn’t help but whisper, “Go away.”
There was no expectation that he’d obey me. He hadn’t yet.
I’d told my shrink about his visits. She agreed with me, said that it was some sort of guilt-induced visions and then she offered meds. I took the meds ignoring her advice about deep breathing and journaling, neither of those would get rid of Liam.
Now when I showed up for my appointments she looked at me strangely. I’d stopped talking about the visits with Liam because it seemed easier. If she knew the meds didn’t help, she’d stop prescribing them. Truthfully, the visions had only gotten worse.
“Josiah,” Liam said in the sweet voice I craved. It nearly brought me to my knees and I was left gasping for breath.
Closing my eyes, I squeezed them hard until the blackness became clouded with bright spots of white. I kept my breath steady: first one breath, then two. After a moment I felt better, a little less unhinged. I gathered up my Slurpee. My limbs were weak now, as if I had run a marathon or gone without food for days.
Seeing him needed to stop. I wanted to hold him, I wanted to kiss him, and I wanted to be with him. Everything in my life had died that day. I couldn't forgive him for leaving me. It was his fault. He should have listened. If only…
There were too many “if onlys” and it would never make a difference.
God, what I wouldn't give to go back and have a do over. Or at least go back to when I met him and ignore everything he’d made me feel. I'd understood the second I saw him how devastating he'd be to my life and still I'd let him in.
Turning away from the Slurpee machine, I strolled casually to the checkout counter. The guy behind it watched me with narrowed eyes. He was probably only a year or two older than me, tall and rangy with acne scars and slicked hair.
I refused to let myself be embarrassed. This guy had no right to judge me. When I glared, his mouth wobbled as his gaze slid cagily to his hands. He fumbled as he attempted to hide the cell phone. He’d probably uploaded my picture or a video to his social media sites.
There'd been a lot of this as the local celebrity. I’d become infamous. It didn't stop me from getting pissed off and wanting to snatch his phone and chuck it against a wall. Yet every time I was portrayed as “normal” would be a good thing. Buying a Slurpee was definitely in the “normal” category and breaking his cellphone wasn’t, so I decided not to confront him.
I put down my Slurpee and took out my wallet, every movement precise. Trying to act casual when feeling the least like it grated on nerves that were already too tight with anxiety.
The cashier seemed kind of spooked that I had caught him spying. He set his phone aside and rang up my purchase without a greeting. Though he wasn't subtle about the curious looks he shot me.
It wasn’t until I put my wallet away that he said, “It’s nice to meet you, man.” Then his face colored like a tomato.
I wasn’t sure why he felt the need to speak to me in the first place. It was a relief that he hadn’t asked for my autograph or a selfie. Giving him a nod, I collected my Slurpee.
Pushing outside the glass doors into the cooler air, I squinted at the sun and slipped on my sunglasses. They were the kind that reflected, giving me an added layer of defense.
Only two news vans had pulled up. They remained on the other side of the lot, not technically in the gas station. A couple of reporters waited along with their cameramen.
I’d gone inside to give them time to assemble, not wanting to pump my gas too soon. I needed a reason to be standing there appearing as if they’d cornered me.
I was eighteen now. A whole two years had passed since I’d first met the friends that I knew they’d want to talk about. My age made me fair game. It didn’t matter that I was still a high school student for another few months.
As to that, I’d been temporarily taken out of school and put on a home schedule, turning in my assignments online. I’d been labeled a distraction. They didn’t want me to show up at any end of the year activities, either. Not that I wanted to go. My friends were dead. There was no reason to attend school in person anyway.
My mom took the whole thing worse than me. She promised me I’d at least walk in the graduation. I’d nodded, knowing that she expected me to agree.
Being out of the public eye hadn’t calmed things down. On the contrary, the story kept growing and at this point it had captured national interest. The DA’s office fed into that. Throwing out bits of their investigation under unnamed sources. Reporters had been tracking my every move.
Unfortunately, I’d been told that I couldn’t talk. That it wouldn’t be in my best interest to make a public statement. I didn’t think that my lawyer or father realized the power of the media. If I could convince the public that I was innocent, the tide would turn, and I could move on with my life. The DA had no qualms about using public opinion against me. I needed to fight back in the same way.
I couldn’t outright defy my father. Especially since he was paying for my lawyer. I’d come up with what I’d thought was a brilliant plan: create a spontaneous meeting. And then I’d have the opportunity to explain everything.
Now that the moment had arrived, nerves set in. Suddenly, I wasn't sure if this was the best thing to do or if I was in the right place mentally to answer these questions. It felt a lot like the miscalculation I’d made with the detectives, except I couldn't back out now. The vultures were already crossing the parking lot.
My heart beat fast, a loud thumping that reached all the way to my ears. I took a deep breath while I continued to walk toward my car. The whole time I refused to look in their direction, pretending I didn’t see them. When I reached my car, I set my Slurpee on the roof and opened the gas tank.
A female journalist approached me seconds after I’d entered my ZIP code into the card reader. I removed the nozzle and inserted it into my tank, then clicked it to fill up my car. At that point I made a very deliberate pan to her and her cameraman. I didn’t greet her, conscious that any expression would be taken out of context.
The woman stood on the other side of the gas pump, close enough to create a sense of intimacy between us for this conversation. Her cameraman stood behind her and focused his camera over her shoulder, presumably getting a clear shot of me.
She gave me a flirty smile as she shoved a microphone into my face. “Mr. Harrison, the DA announced this morning that they’re convening a Grand Jury in your case. How do you feel about this?”
I swallowed, but managed to answer calmly, “I’m confident that the Grand Jury will see the truth of things.”
“Are you saying you’re not guilty?”
I rolled my eyes, not able to help it. “Of course. I didn’t kill my friends.”
Another newsperson came up behind me. This one was older, his iron-gray hair perfectly coiffed. He positioned himself at the back of my car, blocking me between my vehicle and the gas pump. A cameraman was with him too, closing off any escape from that side.
I was caught between the two reporters. My anxiety surged and my throat dried even more. While I’d wanted the opportunity to explain myself, I hadn’t anticipated feeling trapped.
“Do you want to tell us a little bit about what happened?” the male journalist asked.
I half turned to him. This was my chance, so I looked directly into the camera over his shoulder. I made sure that I let a little bit of what sounded like fear into my voice. I’d practiced getting the tone right. It was important that they understand. “We were attacked. The person—whoever it was—stalked us through the forest. I was lucky I made it out.”
“How did you survive when the others didn’t?” He leaned in a bit too closely, making me back away from the protruding microphone and almost into the woman who was now behind me.
