Looking Away
I watched five of them, plus that damn dog, as they drove off late into the night. There were several garbage bags piled in the back of the truck. I knew what was in those bags. They drove up to our hiding place, parked at the edge of the cliff. The three younger boys--the murders of Dwayne, Paul, and most importantly, of Marco--jumped out eagerly and started pulling the bags from the back.
The boys picked up one of the garbage bags, and unceremoniously tossed it over the edge. I winced at the sound of the splash below. Then another bag. SPALSH. I wanted to close my eyes, to turn away. But that's not something you can do when you're dead.
Michael and Star had gotten out of the cab more slowly, and they adverted their eyes when the boys tossed the bodies into the water. There was only one bag left.
"Wait," Star said as they started to pick up the last one. The knot at the top of the bag had come loose, and I could see blond hair. The black plastic, a crude burial shroud, slipped away, revealing a face. It was young and perfect, and would never die though the soul had left it. Years from now, when that body would be pulled out of the sea, that face would be perfect. I would be perfect.
Star and Michael both kneeled down beside my body. Someone had wiped off the dirt and soot from the explosion off of my face. Star, or Michael. There were tears in Star's eyes as she brushed my cheek with the back of her hand, kissed my dead lips softly. To my surprise, Michael did the same.
Oh, Michael, don't you see? We could have been blood brothers. You and me and Star and the others, all together in the night, living forever. It would have been great, with the two of us as leaders of our pack. We didn't have to stay in Santa Carla. New York, Europe. We could have broke out. We could have...
Michael and Star stood then, and they let those three boys--children--commit my body to the open sea. I didn't want to look away.
I watched five of them, plus that damn dog, as they drove off late into the night. There were several garbage bags piled in the back of the truck. I knew what was in those bags. They drove up to our hiding place, parked at the edge of the cliff. The three younger boys--the murders of Dwayne, Paul, and most importantly, of Marco--jumped out eagerly and started pulling the bags from the back.
The boys picked up one of the garbage bags, and unceremoniously tossed it over the edge. I winced at the sound of the splash below. Then another bag. SPALSH. I wanted to close my eyes, to turn away. But that's not something you can do when you're dead.
Michael and Star had gotten out of the cab more slowly, and they adverted their eyes when the boys tossed the bodies into the water. There was only one bag left.
"Wait," Star said as they started to pick up the last one. The knot at the top of the bag had come loose, and I could see blond hair. The black plastic, a crude burial shroud, slipped away, revealing a face. It was young and perfect, and would never die though the soul had left it. Years from now, when that body would be pulled out of the sea, that face would be perfect. I would be perfect.
Star and Michael both kneeled down beside my body. Someone had wiped off the dirt and soot from the explosion off of my face. Star, or Michael. There were tears in Star's eyes as she brushed my cheek with the back of her hand, kissed my dead lips softly. To my surprise, Michael did the same.
Oh, Michael, don't you see? We could have been blood brothers. You and me and Star and the others, all together in the night, living forever. It would have been great, with the two of us as leaders of our pack. We didn't have to stay in Santa Carla. New York, Europe. We could have broke out. We could have...
Michael and Star stood then, and they let those three boys--children--commit my body to the open sea. I didn't want to look away.