The Missing- Volume II- Lies (7 page)

My Maren.

Who gave me everything and then took it away.

The Past

Four Months Ago

“A
re you still mad at me?” My heart lifted and I felt better than I had in days. I stretched my legs out in front of me. Soft sunlight filtered in through the grimy window and I reached up over my head, enjoying the slight pop as my joints extended.

I inhaled deeply, loving the smell of mold, decay . . . and smoke.

I think I loved the smell of smoke most of all.

The door swung open and I heard his heavy footsteps. I didn’t need to turn around. There was only one other person that knew to find me here. There were only two of us that ever came out here at all.

“I’m not mad at you,” Bradley said softly, carefully lowering himself onto the ground. He winced and clutched his side as he made himself as comfortable as possible.

I tucked my pen in the spine of my notebook, holding my place. “Yes, you are. Don’t lie to me,” I chastised gently, noting the fresh bruises and cuts.

The sound of the violent beating of flesh assaulted my ears. I didn’t want to look. But I needed to. My eight-year-old mind jumping to crazy conclusions. But none of them were as bad as the truth.

I snuck behind the gas station, hoping that he hadn’t come. That the fight I heard whispered about in the hallways was between two other fools.

I peeked around the brick wall and gasped, covering my damaged mouth with my hand. Bradley was bleeding. Badly. But still standing. He swung his fists toward the much older kid who stood in front of him. Contact was made and the middle school aged boy stumbled backwards, clearly surprised by the strength of Bradley’s punch.

Bradley wiped his hand across his face, smearing blood. He seemed . . . bored. Even from this distance I could see the dead look in his eyes. As though the beating he had received meant nothing.

This scene wasn’t a new one. I had heard the rumors. I knew about my friend’s constant fights. How at such a young age he sought out trouble and violence. How he instigated others until they came at him with fury and blood.

I had just never seen it with my own eyes.

And his lack of self-preservation terrified me. Because he stood there as the other boy hit him and did nothing. He fought back just enough to keep the fight going. He only smiled when he felt the blood dripping onto his lips.

He wanted this.

No. He
needed
it.

And I was the only one that knew why.

“I would never lie to you, Nora,” Bradley responded, sitting close but not quite touching. He handed me an unopened bag of bar-b-que potato chips. My favorite.

“You’re probably hungry. You haven’t eaten any lunch, have you?” he asked, sounding slightly accusatory. He knew me so well.

I took the bag of chips and opened them, eating a handful. Because he was right. I
was
hungry. I set aside the bag and lifted my pen from the notebook. I should start a new poem now that I wasn’t alone.

Bradley would be upset by the words I had just written. So I quickly turned to a fresh page. A blank page. Starting over.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Bradley repeated, sounding defensive.

I briefly touched his arm, noticing how his muscles bunched and tensed under my fingers. As though he were trying to stop himself from recoiling.

For Bradley, touch was dangerous. It was brutal and soul destroying. He only knew how to hurt and to restrain. Gentle was difficult. Tender took effort.

Sometimes he tried. But not enough. Never enough.

“I know you wouldn’t,” I replied, glancing up at him. He looked worse than I had ever seen him. The left side of his face was swollen and purple. His upper lip was puffy and his nose was crusted with dried blood.

I normally didn’t ask him about his fights. I didn’t need to. I knew so much about the deep, painful secrets he kept buried. My silence was appreciated.

I had learned my lesson. After I found out the
reason,
I didn’t ever have to ask about the
why.

I followed Bradley home. He had noticed me hiding behind the wall of the gas station. He knew I had seen him being beaten. But he never acknowledged me. Even when his eyes met mine and I wanted to cry at how hopeless he looked, he never said a thing.

Bradley was my only friend. He protected me. He kept watch over me. He made sure that I wasn’t alone.

It was my turn to do the same for him.

So I kept my distance. I shadowed his steps. He took his time going home as though he dreaded it. Once he got there, he hesitated at the porch steps, his shoulders rigid.

He seemed so much older than his nine years. So much sadder.

So much angrier.

I noticed that his mother’s car was gone. But his dad’s truck sat in the driveway.

Bradley noticed too.

The door to the house opened and his father loomed large in the entryway.

“Brad! Get inside. It’s late,” he barked and I shivered. Bradley didn’t say anything. He lifted his head and marched up those steps with a resolute rage that I didn’t understand.

Mr. Somers was always smiling. He always said hello to my mother and me, playing the part of the perfect neighbor. He was well liked. He was an upstanding member of the Blackfield community.

I didn’t recognize this coldly angry Mr. Somers. But it was obvious his son did.

I felt sick as I watched Bradley approach him. Fearful and apprehensive. His father put a hand on the back of his neck. Gentle despite his thunderous face. Rubbing the bare skin not covered by hair with tender fingers. He ran a finger down the boy’s battered cheek. It would have seemed a loving gesture to anyone else.

But I knew.

Mr. Somers leaned down close to his son and whispered something in his ear, his hand still rubbing. Still touching.

Bradley didn’t look at his father. But he looked back at me. Just briefly. Our eyes met as his father ushered him inside.

Empty.

Void.

Shut down.

Then I knew Bradley’s hell was just as bad as mine.

Bradley’s physical and emotional state troubled me. So I had to ask. For the first time in years, I needed answers from my friend.

“What happened?”

Bradley’s jaw tightened and he looked angry at my question. “You know better, Nora,” he warned, his fists clenched at his side.

I ignored his insignificant threat.

“What happened?” I repeated, lifting my finger and pointed to the bruises along his cheek.

Bradley got to his feet and began to pace. I waited. He stopped by the one window in the dirty, empty room and slammed his fist into the wall. The wood splintered and a chunk fell to the floor. I didn’t flinch at his aggressive anger. I was used to it.

I knew that he needed to
bleed
before he could
feel.

“You know what happened,” he spat out, bracing himself against the wooden slats.

“I thought your father—” I began but he wouldn’t let me finish.

“It’s not about him. Not anymore!” Bradley shouted, hitting the wall again.

“Then tell me,” I implored. I hated seeing him like this.

I loved seeing him like this.

My wild animal.

Mine.

My Bradley.

“It’s about you! It’s about her! Why are you doing this?” Bradley turned to look at me, falling back against the wall and slowly sinking to the dirty floor. He brought his knees up to his chest and covered his abused face with his hands.

I wanted to egg him on. Just a little. His anguish excited me.

I knew it was wrong. But sometimes the wrong thing just felt
right
.

“Why does she upset you so much? Don’t you want me to be happy? Don’t you want people to love me?” I poked. I prodded.

Bradley was agitated. He hit the concrete floor over and over again. His skin splitting open. His blood ran hot and sticky down his hand. Dripping onto the floor.

Then he stopped. I could see his chest heaving up and down with from the exertion. And when he spoke, his words were muffled.

“I don’t know how to be any way else, Nora. You know that. You’re the only one that really does. Since I was a kid, love was pain. Love was disgusting and vile and every horrible thing in my life. Why would you want something like that? I don’t want you to ever feel the way I have because of ‘love.’ Never!”

He pressed his palms flat against the floor, not caring about the blood. I pushed my glasses up my nose and continued to wait. Letting him have his say.

Bradley didn’t speak much. But when he did, he expected me to listen.

“I don’t trust her, Nora. I can’t. I won’t. Not when you give her the power to hurt you.”

Underneath his hard exterior laid a pure heart. A vulnerable heart. A heart that I held easily in my hands. I could squeeze it, just slightly, and inflict unbearable damage. We both knew that.

That was the true dynamic of our relationship. The real power and control.

Bradley didn’t love.

Except for me.

And he was terrified that I’d take that away from him.

“Maren is not your father, Brad.” I used the name purposefully. To make a point.

His face flushed and I knew I was tiptoeing a very dangerous line. But I continued. I wanted to see the eruption. To see him crumble. Just so I could put him back together. It was my right. My honor. And I cherished it.

No one could glue together my pieces. But I could do this for him.

It didn’t matter that I was the one tearing him down.

“If I want to be with her, I will. If I want to love her, then I’m going to. And if things change, then you have to accept that.”

“What about your mother? What will you do about her?” he demanded.

I felt cold. So cold.

Mother.

My throat was paralyzed. I couldn’t speak.

Mother.

Bradley saw the look on my face and relented. Just slightly.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he swore, approaching me on his knees.

“You already have,” I accused.

Bradley recoiled.

“You watch. Always watching. But what have you ever done to stop it?” I hadn’t realized I felt that way. Not until the words were out of my mouth.

“What would you have me do?” he asked softly.

I closed my eyes, pinching my lips, feeling the scars tighten. “I want you to burn them all for me, Bradley. Every single one of them.”

Bradley smiled. Or at least tried to. “We both know you can burn them yourself.”

He was right. I never had a problem with wielding fire.

I smelled the smoke again. It was stronger this time. A slight breeze swept in from the hallway stirring up memories with the lingering scent of flames.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” Bradley remarked.

“Where else would I be?” I asked.

“They condemned this place after the—”

“The fire,” I whispered, interrupting him. Finishing the thought for myself.

The fire.

I looked around, remembering a room full of saddles and tools. Of sitting in the corner watching Dad work. Often times he’d forget that I was there at all. I was invisible. Even to him.

“I wonder if Rosie ever comes here,” I mused unkindly.

Bradley frowned, looking at me oddly. Perhaps wondering why I had mentioned her at all. I giggled. “I know, it’s probably in bad taste to bring her up, here of all places.”

My friend continued to stare at me, clearly bothered by my less than appropriate response to such an awful topic.

I cleared my throat and rubbed at my scar above my lip. A nervous gesture I had developed in the weeks since my surgery. “You came here with me before. Do you remember?” I asked him, changing the subject.

Bradley’s eyes darkened before dulling into nothingness once again. “I remember you waiting for a man to acknowledge you when we both knew it would never happen. You loved a lie, Nora. I wish you’d stop putting that ass on a pedestal.”