Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“…Maybe.”
“I’ll see you soon, right? You’ll be here in Louisville for a while?” Legend asked, his gaze solemn.
He knew that question had a double edge to it, and he’d have to step up.
“Oh, yeah.” Caspian coughed into his hand, then looked up at the sky. It was mighty gray and misty. He could smell the rain in the air. “I told my job I can work remotely and everything. That’s the good thing ’bout havin’ my own column, podcast and news connections. Keeps me abreast of things. Plus, I managed to get some stories out before I headed up here. I’m caught up, at least for now.” Legend nodded in understanding. “‘It’s all settled. I don’t know how long I’ll be here to tell ya the truth, but I’ll stay for as long as needed.”
“There sure is a lot to get done and wherever you go, it’ll still have to be done. I’ll make sure you get it taken care of, too.”
This motherfucker is threatenin’ me at my dead aunt’s funeral. I know a veiled threat when I hear one. I’d like to cut his fuckin’ tongue out.
Legend hugged him once more, then walked away, weaving between the crowd and the gravestones. After a few moments, Caspian walked around the cemetery, checking out the other tombstones, reading the inscriptions. Some had lived a nice, long life. Others were mere babies. How fragile life was.
One minute we’re here, the next we’re gone. Aunt Angel was smilin’ during her last days. She still had trouble talkin’ but she tried, and I understood most of it. She sent me long emails about her garden, the concert she was going to, and what Uncle Bobby and Noah were up to. We talked about game shows, country music, and politics. She was a liberal and a devote church goer. Noah’s just not concerned either way. Uncle Bobby’s a conservative Republican. Me, somewhere in the middle. We all got along regardless.
She’d answer questions I had about my mama over the years and always said real nice thangs about her… ’cept for her struggle with depression. It’s funny. Mama had never seemed depressed to me. She laughed and played. Worked. Got outta bed. I never saw her sittin’ around crying for days on end. Maybe I don’t understand what depression is. I mean, I understand the textbook definition, but it never sat right with me to describe her like that.
Mama was a lover. A comedian. A good mama. A nurturer. Took care of me and her bird. I miss Sue… I hope she had a good parrot life with Mama’s friend. I ’magine Sue is long gone now, too. My child psychologist said that I blame myself for Mama’s death. I imagine, in some strange way, I blame myself for Aunt Angel’s death, too. No, I ain’t put the cancer in ’er body, but maybe if I’d been around more, she’d have had someone close to talk to. A piece of her sister, ’cause I’m half of my mama, and half of a man I’ve never known. Aunt Angel said my mama had been her best friend. Uncle Bobby and Noah probably weren’t enough for her. They weren’t my mama… but I’m part of ’er. I was the closest she had.
First chance I got, I ran away. I knew I was runnin’ from the past. From myself. I had to do it, though. The voices were gettin’ too loud. I wanted to kill someone, make ’em pay over and over again.
He left the cemetery, and traveled back to Aunt Angel’s house. It was dark and quiet inside, unsettlingly so. Noah and Uncle Bobby would be back soon enough. He made his way up to his old room. The door creaked when he turned the knob, and so did the floorboards as he dragged his body along, until he toppled onto the bed. He sat up for a bit, staring across the room at the box from his mama. He’d opened it several days ago and found old books, files, magazines, envelopes and toys inside. He hadn’t wanted to delve into it too deep right before the funeral and all, so he’d just rummaged about inside it on the very top layer just in case anything struck his fancy.
His chest had filled with heat when he’d noticed the old, broken purple crayon. He’d almost forgotten about it. Aunt Angel must’ve put it in there. He wouldn’t let go of that thing for days. He’d reached inside the box and grabbed it. Placed it to his chest and cried. Now, it lay on the nightstand, in a pencil box.
Caspian shook the thoughts out of his mind and drifted off to sleep. A strange dream began when he was in the cemetery, reading the inscriptions on graves all over again. One was floating in the sky upside down, above his head. The sky had turned into varied shades of dark purple and black, crashing against his mind like ocean waves during a hell of a storm. And then it happened. It began to rain as he ran around in that cemetery… only it wasn’t rain but tears. Someone was wailing and crying and carrying on, making him all wet with their grief. It was a loud, hideous cry, the kind that crawled up your spine and shook your bones.