Praying for Rain Page 15

  I know April 23 won’t technically be here until midnight, but from the looks of this place, I think hell is going to show up ahead of schedule.

  As I hustle across the highway, I pass a group of shitfaced good ole boys hanging out on the tailgate of a stranded F-250. They have the doors open, blasting some obnoxious country song from the truck’s CD player. They don’t seem to notice me, but as soon as I get within arm’s reach, one of the fuckers reaches out and grabs my backpack. It all happens so fast. One minute, I have my sights set on the smoking shell of a library across the street, and the next, I have a forty-year-old man on the pavement with my pocketknife pressed against his throat.

  His stunned, glassy eyes lift to something over my head as his buddy in the truck yells, “Mikey! Git my rifle!”

  Shit.

  Backpack in hand, I take off running, disappearing behind a Chevy Suburban just before three bullets pierce the hood and fender. Their laughter fades behind me as I tear past the library. The exterior walls are still intact, but the fire inside has eaten through the roof and is now shooting fifteen feet into the air. A few extremely stoned-looking Franklin Springs citizens have gathered around to watch it burn.

  I hope Rain made it through here okay, I think as my feet hit the trail.

  If she even went home. Fuck. What if she didn’t go home?

  I rack my brain for other places I should search, but nothing comes to mind. Carter’s house is gone. Her friends have all left town, if she even had any. The businesses around here are either boarded up, burned down, or occupied by thugs. She has to be there. She has to.

  What the hell do I say to her dad?

  “Hi. I’m the guy your daughter was with while you were worried sick about her for the last two and a half days. Sorry about that.”

  Maybe he really is deaf. If that’s the case, I won’t have to say anything.

  As I jog, I wonder if Rain knows sign language.

  I wonder if her mom will be home.

  I wonder if she even has a mom anymore.

  I don’t slow down, the closer I get. In fact, I pick up the pace as soon as the tree house comes into view, hurdling over the fallen oak where Rain told me she went home this morning.

  Why would she lie about that? What is she hiding?

  Whatever it is, I have a feeling it’s inside that house.

  And I just shoved her back toward it with both hands.

  Fucking asshole.

  An idea, a wild hope, ignites in my mind as I take the wooden ladder rungs two at a time. But, when I lift my head above the threshold of the tree house, all I find are two beanbag chairs, some protein bar wrappers, and an empty bottle of whiskey. No Rain. Just remnants from our first night together.

  I look over my shoulder at her house and see it the way I saw it then. The faded gray siding. The darkened windows. It looks just as empty as it did that night, but it’s not. It can’t be.

  I hop down and feel the impact deep in my shoulder wound. It’s still throbbing, but I think my fever has gone down. I slide the backpack onto my good shoulder and dig the bottle of Keflex out of the front pocket—just another reminder of all the ways Rain tried to help me.

  Popping one into my mouth, I cross the overgrown backyard with a renewed determination to find her and return the favor.

  I round the corner, passing her old man’s pickup truck in the driveway, and march up the weather-beaten steps to her front door. With my heart in my throat, I raise my fist to knock, but the sound coming through the broken window in the door makes my blood run cold.

  It’s a song.

  It’s a Twenty One fucking Pilots song.

  “Rain?” I call through the hole in the door, hoping she’ll just walk over and let me in. Like anything in my life has ever been that easy.

  “Rain!” I yell louder, the artery in my neck pulsing with every second that ticks by unanswered.

  The only response I get back is that singer’s whiny-ass voice telling me that he can’t sleep because everyone has guns for hands.

  Unable to stand here any fucking longer, I reach out and turn the knob. It rotates in my hand freely.

  Moving so that my body is against the wall and out of view, I yell, “I’m coming in,” and nudge the door open with my foot. When the action isn’t met with a spray of bullets, I take a deep breath and look around the doorframe.

  Then, I immediately retreat.

  Gasping for air with my back against the wooden siding, I try to process the scene inside.

  A dark living room. Blinds drawn shut.

  A coffee table. A couch. An old-school TV.

  And a man.

  Sitting in a recliner, facing the door.

  With a shotgun across his lap.

  And his brains splattered all over the wall behind him.

  With every breath I draw, the smell becomes more and more unbearable.

  The smell of death. The smell of dried blood and exposed gray matter.

  The song starts over.

  I pull the small flashlight from my pocket and breathe into my shirt as I tiptoe into the house. Broken glass crunches under my boots.

  “Rain?” I call again, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat.

  I tell myself not to look as I walk past Mr. Williams to check the kitchen, but morbid fucking curiosity gets the best of me. Swinging the flashlight in his direction, I have to clamp my teeth together so hard they almost crack to keep from puking. The entire back of his head is mushy pulp, mingling with the fluffy insides of the recliner. The streaks on the once-country-blue wall behind him have long dried to a deep rust, indicating where the bigger chunks were before they slid off and calcified on the crusty, bloodstained carpet.

  I don’t see an entrance wound on his bloated old face, but the blood spilling over his lower lip and into his gray beard tell me that somebody put that shotgun into his mouth before pulling the trigger.

  Probably him.

  The color of the blood and the stench in the fucking air also tell me that this shit did not just happen. I’d say this guy’s been sitting here for …

  My guts twist, and this time, no amount of teeth-clenching will keep me from hurling all over the carpet as the last two and a half days scream by in reverse.

  The drugs. The secrecy. The mood swings.

  The way she refused to let me come inside the house.

  The way she said he wouldn’t hear her knocking, wouldn’t see her at the door.

  The way she came running out of here that night like she’d seen a …

  I brace myself on my knees and puke again.

  Oh God.

  Fuck.

  He’s been here this whole fucking time.

  The song starts over.

  And now she’s in here with him.

  Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I walk over to the stairs by the open front door. As much as I hate to trap in the smell, I kick it shut. The last thing we need is wild dogs sniffing out the body.

  The beam from my flashlight leads the way as I trudge up the stairs, listening for movement, crying, anything. But there’s nothing. Nothing but that goddamn song and the sound of my own rushing pulse as I finally reach the upstairs hallway.

  Five doors.

  Three closed.

  Here we go.

  “Rain?” I call again, but I know she won’t answer. I try not to consider why as I shine my flashlight into the first open door on the right.

  The sight of a black braid makes my breath catch, but I exhale in relief when I realize that it’s sitting on top of an overflowing trash can. Next to a toilet. Beside a sink.

  There’s no one inside. It’s just an empty bathroom.

  A thought occurs to me as I throw open the next door and find nothing but towels and sheets.

  Maybe Rain killed the bastard. I saw her mow down two motherfuckers at Huckabee Foods like it was nothing. She could have killed him too, if it were self-defense.

  I want to believe it. I want to picture Ra
in as the victor in this fucked up situation. I want to find her rocking in a corner somewhere because she’s batshit crazy.

  Not because she’s broken.

  The song starts over as I approach the last door on the right.

  “Rain?” I knock lightly before turning the knob, not wanting to startle whoever might be inside. “It’s Wes. Can I come in?” I crack the door and brace for impact, but the only thing that hits me in the face is that same putrid smell from downstairs.

  Fuck.

  I pull my shirt over my nose and pray to every fucking god I can think of as I approach the lump on the bed.

  Please don’t let it be her. Please don’t let it be her. Please, God. I know you fucking hate me, but just … fuck. Don’t let it be her.

  I watch helplessly as the yellow beam from my flashlight slides up the side of a four-poster bed and across the surface of a patchwork quilt covered in flowers. The bedspread has been pulled up over the person’s face—or over the place where it used to be, judging by the size and location of the maroon stain on the fabric—but I don’t pull it down.

  I don’t need to. The blonde hair fanned out over the shredded pillow—soaked in blood as thick as tar and sprinkled with fluffy down feathers—tells me everything I need to know.

  There’s no saving Mrs. Williams.

  I just hope I’m not too late to save her daughter.

  My legs are moving and my guts are churning and my hands are gripping the flashlight like a lifeline.

  Not because I’m scared.

  But because now, I know exactly where she is.

  The music is louder at this end of the hall, so the last room on the left has to be the one. I stomp across the carpeted corridor and twist the knob. I don’t knock first. I don’t wait in the hallway and push the door open from a safe distance. All of my survival instincts go out the fucking window as I burst through the last obstacle standing between me and my girl.

  The first thing that registers is the smell. It isn’t putrid or coppery, like the rest of the house. It’s as warm and sugary as vanilla cake. I close the door behind me and breathe in like a drowning swimmer breaking the surface of the water. The familiar scent fills my lungs and lifts my spirits. Looking around the room, I find the source of the smell everywhere. Lit candles illuminate every nook and cranny in Rain’s small bedroom. I turn my flashlight off and stick it back in my pocket as I take in the cozy space. Clothes and notebooks cover the floor. Bookcases filled with messily arranged paperbacks and trinkets line the left wall. A daybed and side table take up most of the right. And there, on that bed, is my very own Sleeping Beauty.

  Rain is lying on her stomach on top of the covers, a vision of perfection in a house of fucking horrors.

  I cross the room in two steps. The first thing I do is grab Rain’s glowing cell phone off the nightstand and jam my finger against the pause symbol on the screen. I set it back down and exhale in relief as that fucking song stops, and silence settles around us.

  Rain is facing the wall, so I sit on the edge of her bed and run my hand over her shiny black hair. It feels smooth beneath my palm. Smooth and real. Nothing matters outside of these four walls. The chaos, the danger, the festering death. It doesn’t exist. It’s just me, my sleeping angel, and a glowing, silent sense of peace.

  “Rain,” I whisper, leaning over to kiss her temple. But, when my lips meet her flesh, my illusion of happiness comes crashing down.

  Her skin is cold. Too cold.

  “Rain.” I shake her shoulder and watch as her limp body jostles lifelessly.

  “Fuck! Rain!” I leap to my feet and roll her toward me so that I can see her face.

  And it’s like looking into Lily’s all over again.

  Purple lips.

  Purple eyelids.

  Ashen skin.

  I’m too late.

  I’m too fucking late.

  “Wake up, Rain! Come on, baby! Wake up!”

  My eyes and hands search every inch of her body for a bullet wound, a slit wrist, something that would explain why she’s not fucking waking up. But there’s nothing. No blood. No injuries. It’s not until I rip open her flannel shirt that I find my answer.

  Or rather don’t find it.

  Rain’s precious bottle of hydrocodone is gone.

  “Goddamn it, Rain!” My voice breaks on her name like a tidal wave against a seawall as I jam my fingers against her jugular, searching for a pulse I know I won’t find.

  “Goddamn it,” I whisper, pulling her lifeless body into my arms.

  I drape her long arms over my shoulders and hug her to my chest.

  “I’m so sorry.” The words come out as voiceless sobs.

  I grip her body tighter and bury my face in her neck. Her toes barely touch the carpet as I rock her back and forth. She used to like that. It made her feel better.

  “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I coil my arms around her ribs, hugging her like I hugged that lying fucking pillow.

  You are loved, it said.

  I cough out a bitter, sorrowed laugh, tasting my own tears on her cold, clammy skin.

  I was loved.

  And here’s the fucking proof.

  Rain survived the murder-suicide of her parents, the loss of her friends and boyfriend, and the disintegration of her whole fucking town, but it was my neglect that finally broke her.

  Just like Lily.

  For the first time in my life, I think about killing myself. I could just lie down beside Rain, hold her in my arms, and with Mr. Williams’s shotgun, add one more corpse to this fucked up house of death.

  But I can’t. That’s my fucking curse. I’m a survivor.

  And when I feel Rain’s pulse, weak and fleeting against my cheek, I know I was right about her all along.

  She’s a survivor too.

  April 23

  Rain

  “Look.” Wes grabs my arm as we cross the highway, pointing at the digital billboard above Burger Palace. “The sign is still on. What the fuck?”

  I snort and roll my eyes. “They probably have a special generator for it. God forbid we have to go a day without seeing stupid King Burger on his stupid fucking horse.”

  I give the animated asshole the side-eye as we approach, which he seems to return.

  His cartoon eyes land on me as his deep voice booms from the loudspeakers. “What did you say, young lady?”

  I look at Wes, who shrugs in response, and then back at the digital sign.

  “I’m talking to yoooou!” The ground shakes beneath my feet as King Burger points his French fry staff in my direction. It becomes three-dimensional and a thousand times longer, extending out of the screen and stopping inches away from my face.

  “I … I’m sorry,” I say, glancing up the length of the French fry at the raging monarch above.

  “I will not tolerate profanity in my kingdom!”

  I open my mouth to apologize again, but when I do, King Burger shoves his French fry staff right down my throat.

  “Get those foul words out of your mouth,” he bellows as I gag and cough and gasp for air.

  It’s not until I’m puking all over the sidewalk that he finally lets up.

  “There you go.” His voice is kinder now. Softer. “Get it all out.”

  I puke again, but this time, when I open my eyes, I’m hovering over a toilet bowl in a dark room. Someone is rubbing my back.

  He’s saying things like, “I’m so sorry,” and, “That’s my girl.”

  It sounds like Wes, but before I can turn to look at him, he shoves two fingers down my throat and makes me hurl again.

  I swat at him, but my hands hit nothing. Wes evaporates like smoke, leaving me alone and on my knees. I’m no longer hugging a toilet. I’m in the woods, kneeling in wet pine straw and staring down into the watery entrance of the flooded bomb shelter. As my stomach gives one last heave, I reach into my mouth and pull something long and silky from the depths of my stomach. It just keeps coming, yard after yard.
Once it’s finally out, I spread it over the ground to see it better.

  But I already know what it is.

  A black-and-red banner.

  With a demonic silhouetted horseman in the center.

  And a date at the top.

  Today’s date.

  I swing my head left and right, listening for hooves, looking for Wes. But I don’t find him in the forest. I find him when I look back down at my reflection.

  Is that what I look like? I wonder, reaching up to touch my stubbly jaw, but my reflection doesn’t copy me.

  Instead, it beats on the surface of the murky water with a closed fist, eyes wide and full of panic.

  “Wes!” I reach out to touch his face in the water, but the surface is as smooth and hard as glass. I pound on it with both hands, but they bounce right off.

  Wes’s eyes are pleading. Huge bubbles leave his mouth and break against the barrier between us as he tries to tell me something.

  “Wes! Hang on!” I wrap the banner around my fist and punch as hard as I can, but my blows land like pillows against the unbreakable water.

  As I stop to catch my breath, I realize that Wes isn’t fighting anymore. His face is calm now, and his eyes are full of remorse and acceptance.

  “No!” I scream at him, pounding the surface again. “No, Wes! Fight!”

  But he doesn’t. He presses a hand to the glass as his face sinks away from me. His eyes lift to something over my shoulder just before they disappear into the black.

  I don’t have to turn around to know what he was looking at. I can feel the horse’s hot, hellish breath on the back of my neck. I bow my head, ready to accept my fate, and feel the wind from a swinging mace ruffle my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, but the spiked ball doesn’t connect with my skull.

  It shatters the glass beneath my hands.

  Without thinking, I plunge into the cold, murky water, looking, reaching, grasping for Wes. But I can’t find him. I swim deeper but never hit bottom. I swim to the left and right but never find a wall. I don’t come up for air until my lungs begin to burn. I kick furiously to get back to the surface, clenching my teeth and holding my nose to keep from inhaling water in my desperation to breathe, but just as I prepare to crest the top of the water, I hit my head on it instead.