Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
The driver of the other car died on impact.
I was the only one who could’ve helped Christy.
And I’d failed her.
Days pass and weeks merge into one another without me noticing. My body heals, and my mind and soul thicken with scar tissue inflicted by pain, grief, and unwavering guilt. I’m frozen in time, reliving the night of Christy’s death over and over.
I recede into myself. Friends call around to visit me in the little trailer where I recuperate over the summer break, but I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to see anyone. I can’t stand the looks of pity on their faces or the sympathy in their voices when they tell me it wasn’t my fault.
But the worst is when they try to comfort me with their soothing hands or reassuring hugs. I pull away, undeserving of their reassurance and sickened by the contact.
Back at school, I’m haunted by the halls where Christy and I used to walk hand in hand. Everywhere I look, the memory of her lingers, and it sucks the life out of me until I’m nothing more than a shell of who I was.
Every day I’m taunted by the same questions, over and over.
Would she have survived if I hadn’t been too drunk to help her?
If we’d missed the lights just once on our way through town, would she still be with us today?
Don’t torment yourself, the school counselor tells me. These are all things we can never possibly know the answer to.
He is right.
So instead, I focus on the things that I do know.
How Christy would still be alive if I hadn’t stormed out of our argument.
How Christy would still be alive if I had simply passed out on the lawn instead of calling her.
How Christy would still be alive if she had never, ever, met me.
At night, I torture myself with the what-ifs.
By day, I become a ghost who can’t make it through the day without falling apart.
The guilt is palpable.
The blame is eternal.
The remorse is deserving.
And it’s only getting started.
DOC
Eighteen Years Later
“I need you to look at my cock.”
These are the words that greet me over my morning coffee while I sit in the kitchen of the Kings of Mayhem, Tennessee, clubhouse. Merrick slides into the chair across the small kitchen table from me, looking sheepish and worried at the same time.
“C’mon, brother, I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” I grumble.
If he notices how much I don’t want to have this type of conversation before I get my first caffeine hit, he doesn’t show it.
Instead, he dives head first into an explanation.
“I’m serious, Doc. I think something is wrong down there. See, I was with this girl the other night and—”
“Why does every situation in your life start with I was with this girl the other night?”
Merrick is the Casanova of the club—good-looking and built like a tank with bright blue eyes and dimples. Women love him, and he wastes no time in loving them right back.
“Can I help it if all the ladies around here have good taste? Anyway, I need you to tell me if I’ve got something. When I woke up this morning, I found a…” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “It’s like a rash… Doc, I think she fucking gave me something.”
“Tell me you used protection.”
Again, he looks sheepish.
“Jesus, Merrick. What have I told you about unsafe sex?” It does my head in when he doesn’t listen to my warnings. “I’ve told you over and over to use a goddamn condom.”
“And I usually listen. But this babe, Doc, she was doing things to me that made me lose my mind.”
“And your common sense?”
“I slipped up. It happens.”
“So does syphilis.”
“C’mon, Doc, she was giving me head like a fucking porn star, and the next thing I know, she’s climbing on board and riding me like a jockey in the Kentucky Derby.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s too early in the morning for Merrick’s metaphors.
“Fine, I’ll take a look, but can I finish my coffee first?”
“Sure,” he says.
But he doesn’t move.
Instead, he sits waiting.
“In peace?” I add.
“Oh, yeah, sure thing, man.” He stands, but he looks so awkward and uncomfortable, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.
“I’ll meet you in the clinic in thirty minutes. Okay?”
When he smiles, his dimples press into his cheek. “Thanks, Doc.”
Merrick walks off, and I pick up my coffee, but before I even get it to my lips, Ghoul appears.
“I got this splinter.” He thrusts a finger under my nose. “You think you can get the fucker out?”
“Sure, I’ll dig it out after I’ve had my damn coffee.”
“Will there be blood?”
“Probably not.”
“Pity.”
Ghoul likes blood.
“I could dig a little deeper if you like?”
Ghoul smiles. “You’d do that for me?”
“No, I was kidding.”
He looks disappointed. “Damn.”
Ghoul likes all things horror, especially slasher films. For the club, he does the pathology runs for the medical examiner over in Copperville. It’s a free service we provide in return for favors—a blood test here, a urine test there. Ghoul loves driving the blood from place to place because the weirdo has a bizarre respect for the red stuff, and knowing he’s got it in the trunk of the car gives him some sort of strange buzz.