Brightside by Mark Tullius (story books to read txt) 📕

IT’S LUNCHTIME AND Sara still hasn’t come back. I’m at my desk with the door closed, lights off, acting like nobody’s home.

I’m on no sleep and little food. I know I can’t keep this up, but how can I eat? Not when all I can think of is Rachel and what’s left of her, the saddest secret I’ve ever held.

Cleaning up Rachel’s body was my form of grief. I was crying, holding her in my arms, remembering the good times. I kept stroking her neck, because her cheek was gone, just cradled her in my arms, rocking back and forth, apologizing for all the things I’d done, for the things I wouldn’t say. I told her she was beautiful, especially her nose, the one she hated, the one somewhere in pieces behind the nightstand. For some reason, I sang Dad’s stupid song about fish heads. I told Rachel, Dad would have liked her, even though he probably wouldn’t have. It was okay to fib. The part of her that knew if I was lying was splattered all over the ceiling, the wall, the bed. It was the part she just wanted gone.

I wondered what was going through her head when her thumb pushed down on the trigger. Besides the buckshot. I hoped it wasn’t about me, prayed she didn’t go out on such a sour note. I wanted to believe she was picturing that tropical beach, just her and the surf. No one around for miles. Not a single soul with all their fucked up, twisted thoughts. Just her, the sand, a giant piña colada.

I kept rocking, picturing her turning the shotgun around, getting her fingers curled under the handle between her knees. Her thumb fits perfect.

The barrel’s so long, the hole so big and black and forever. To get this right she’s leaning forward, bending her head, mouth open.

The metal’s cold but clean. The barrel digs into the roof of her mouth, the front sight splitting her lower lip.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more. It never did.

Her eyes water when she pushes the shotgun higher, tearing into the flesh so she knows exactly where it is, making sure the angle’s just right. That’s all she wants...something to be right. For once. Please.

All she needs is ten pounds of pressure. Ten pounds and all of her pain will be gone. No more thoughts ever again.

She’s got the meaty part of her thumb on the trigger. She’s closing her eyes.

Ten pounds isn’t much. Just a quick shove. A quick shove and everything stops. No more Brightside.

A bead of sweat’s running down her nose, the one that’s now in pieces. Her mouth’s filled with saliva. It’s dribbling out the corners, down her chin, just like when I tried to make her drink in the Cabin. She needs to hurry. Almost there.

She’s thinking goodbye, no one around to hear. She’s thinking sorry for all the men who put her through hell. She’s picturing me, her father, the lacrosse team. She’s putting more pressure on the trigger.

It’s now or never...

The loudest bang, but she only hears one-tenth. All her problems blasting out of her head. Then silence. Peace.

Holding Rachel got me thinking about Steven. A few days after he passed, his parents had a funeral. There was some old Chinese lady playing a harp, the women wearing veils, the men holding them tightly, rubbing their arms for comfort. Steven’s mom even rented a swan to waddle around and stretch its neck as they lowered Steven’s little casket into the ground.

I’d begged Dad not to make me go, but he said every man needs to face death, it’s coming whether we like it or not. Steven’s mom threw herself on the casket. Steven’s dad pried her off. I’d never heard such screams. The swan apparently hadn’t either and started attacking Steven’s aunt. Dad told me to help, and the thing bit my hand and took off for the pond.

Still, Steven got a proper burial. Something I couldn’t give Rachel. If I had called anyone, they’d find the shotgun and they’d drug and interrogate me until I cracked. Dad would finally get his wish to be in Brightside, but no one else would ever leave. They’d find the cave, seal it off, and we’d all be stuck. Things would change. They’d bring more Boots, more cameras, making sure none of us tried anything like this again.

I stared into Love-A-Lot’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But people are depending on me, and I’ve already let too many people down.”

I lifted what was left of Rachel into my arms and carried her to the closet. Then, with my parent’s voices telling me time was running out, I started cleaning, put on some yellow rubber gloves. I started with the big chunks, tossing them into a black trash bag, each piece plopping onto the one before. I ran out of paper towels, had to use the extra set of sheets. I kept pouring bleach, scrubbing the floors, never really getting all the blood and bits, just sort of swirling it around and around.

I took two showers, dug my nails into the soap, scrapping out the little flecks of Rachel. I scrubbed so hard at my skin I thought I’d reach bone. Then I air-dried because I’d used both bath towels on the floor. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair like it was any other morning here in Brightside. Everything’s fine. Just going to work.

I swept the last puddles towards the kitchen, made sure there was nothing left that could leak into the hall. I stood in front of the open closet, told Rachel I was sorry, that this would all be over soon. Someone would take her to the cemetery, bury her like she deserved. Then I closed the door.

The sun was beginning to rise, soft reds and yellows sifting up from the darkness. Day 100 had officially been going for hours, but it wasn’t until the sun took its place above the horizon, that this really began.

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