Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
CHAPTER THIRTY
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
—William Shakespeare
Seventeen Years Ago
Patient Number 0022
The world brightened another shade, and Jett looked around, the bus station shimmering and wavering, like a desert mirage that wasn’t really there.
Is he you?
Jett swallowed. He felt the lump move down his throat, felt the breath grow thin in his lungs. Feathers caressed his cheek. Back, forth, back, forth. He was him, and the boy was a different boy, and he felt scared and sad and guilt ridden and shameful. He wanted to run, but he wanted to stay, and he knew the boy, but he didn’t want to say his name. No, he’s not me. He’s someone else. He’s my . . . friend.
Shall we stay? Or shall we board that bus? It’s up to you. It’s always up to you, his guide said. But now her voice didn’t come from a distance. It was right beside him, and it had breath that was minty, and the wings that tickled his cheek and comforted him smelled like flowers and coconuts. The world grew a shade brighter, and he felt something against his back. A chair, or a couch. Soft. It was soft. More scents invaded his nostrils. Something sweet, something bitter. There were sounds outside him, too, but he wasn’t sure what they were. Movement, whispers, the whirring of a machine.
“If I stay, it will be bad,” he said, and he heard his own voice, he felt it as he pushed it from his mouth. No monster crushed it. He was free to speak if he wanted. He took in a mouthful of air, and his lungs expanded. Full.
There are bad parts of stories, his guide said. Bad things make up stories too.
Yes, but it was . . . it was his story, and he could tell it. But he’d also lived it, and it hurt to know that. He felt wetness on his cheeks, and he felt the flowery coconut feathers too. Back, forth, back, forth. “I’ll have to go back there to tell it,” he told her.
“That’s okay. I’ll be with you. I’ll be there to hear your story.”
“Will you still like me when you know?” Would anyone like him? How could they?
He felt her release a gust of minty air, and that feathery caress on his cheek never halted, not even for a moment. Back, forth, back, forth. “I will love you. No matter what.”
He felt his lids fluttering, but he didn’t want to open his eyes. They were so heavy, and he was tired, and he could travel without opening his eyes. And so he did, back through town to the road that would bring him to the farm where his story had begun. Back to find the boy. Even though he was scared, and he didn’t want to return, he knew he had to.
His story had a beginning, and it had a middle, but it didn’t yet have an end.
The sky grew darker as he walked, the low rumble of thunder sounding in the misty air. The rain began to fall in steady streams. It was salty and bitter, and it stung his skin like acid. The little boy peeked out from behind a tree, his red shirt the only color in the dull landscape. He’d been laughter and joy, and he’d been Jett’s only friend. The boy gestured with his hand. “Come on.” Jett followed, his feet trudging along behind the boy, watching as he darted here and there, hiding, laughing. He was playing a game, a long-ago game with the boy Jett had been, who was now wrapped in the safety of his grown-up body.
He leaned around the tree and tapped the boy on his shoulder, and the boy startled and laughed. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you,” Jett said. He was so sad. God, he was so sad. The rain drenched him, falling in sheets.
“You did remember,” the boy told him. “You never forgot. And you came back for me.”
“Yes, but . . .”
With a burst of laughter, the boy ran off through the rain. The one who’d come from the farm a few miles away to play with him. Milo. The name stabbed at his underbelly, wounding him. He saw where Milo was running, alarm ringing through him. “No!”
Jett ran, sprinting through the rain where Milo had disappeared into the fog, running toward that shed that had been his prison and his torture chamber. Nonono. Oh God, no. The flutter of white feathers sounded next to him, his guide easily keeping pace.
Breathless, Jett skidded to a stop in front of the shed, going down on his knees as he sobbed. Nonono. “Open the door. I’m right here with you.”
His shoulders shook, his whole body trembled as he reached his fingers through the rain that now felt thick and sludgy, clutching the door handle and pulling it open, inch by slow inch. And when it was open, the sight stopped his heart, razors ripping down his throat, his muscles seizing. His grandfather was doing what he’d done to Jett. His pants were down around his ankles, and Milo was bent over the bench, facing away. Agony. Milo’s agony ripped through him. Jett’s mouth opened wide, and he yelled, a thousand swarming flies swelling from his lips. He threw himself toward his grandfather, to make him stop. Oh God, please no, stop. His grandfather raised his arm and smacked him. Jett’s body hit the wood wall of the shed with a sharp thud, ears ringing, those flies continuing to buzz buzz buzz BUZZ BUZZ. Milo had been yelling, but now he stopped. The only sound in Jett’s head was the incessant drone. The world spun, and when the hissing black insects cleared, he saw that his grandfather’s hands were around Milo’s neck and he was squeezing.