You attend the funeral, your second this week, and in the same fashion both times. You aren't exactly invited, so you just hang back, watch the event from a distance. You see the parents, vaguely recalling their names (Joyce and Step-Douche, yeah). There are some kids there, but none you recognize. Chloe didn't really have that many friends. You are actually rather surprised the burial has even this many attendants.
You are a little ashamed in that when you first heard the news, you thought of the money you'd never see again before you thought of Chloe. But then, you and she weren't quite friends anyway. It's not the first time a former customer got caught up in things too much for them, you think. It's no reason to shed any tears.
But you feel a wetness on your face, and you turn your gaze skyward, expecting rain. You are greeted by only blue, and you realize, maybe, you aren't as stone hearted as you like to imagine. But the casket has been lowered, so you don't need to dwell here, and Pompidou has been alone for a while now anyway.
You park your RV by the beach. The tide's ebb and flow calms you, and the cops rarely show up here. Pompidou barks in excitement as you open the door, and he runs off to relieve himself. You take out your folding lawn chair and the associated folding table, and allow yourself a toke or two.
It's evening now, Pompidou sleeping under the table where you rest your feet. The sunset over the water gives a warm golden glow to the world. Idly, you remember this has a special name for photographers; Rachel had told you about it once.
Rachel.
You immediately feel a queasiness in your gut. You've been holding onto hope for her return for so long, it became a part of you. But now, you know. Her body is there, in the graveyard, in the ground, and can never be here, in your RV, in your arms. The hole in your heart is Rachel shaped, and you fear you'll never be whole again.
You're broken.
But you are interrupted in your pity by a small noise from the rear of the dirt-caked RV. You stand, defensive, but soften when you see who it is. Small girl, black dress, short cut brown hair. She was at the funeral today, you think. You call out, a greeting and warning in one. She offers her empty hands in front of her, saying something about not fighting again.
An odd choice of words, you think, as you don't recall meeting her before. Pompidou is alert now, but not aggressive, and you take that as a good sign. You ask her what she wants, trying for a neutral tone (you achieve only mild irritation instead, and you think maybe that's improvement anyway).
She says she saw the RV from the cliff as she visited the lighthouse. You glance up, and decide that's fair enough. She continues, that she hears you have product for sale.
She appears gentle enough, but you don't deal to just any kid, so you try denial. She cuts in before you finish; she heard about you from Chloe (her voice catches), and she saw you in the tree line at the burial. And for the second time today, you feel too soft, because you wave her toward you and retrieve your logbook.
You ask what she likes, and she has no idea. It's obvious this is her first time. You offer a sample of the kind Chloe used to buy. She asks how much, and you say this sample is free. You also promise yourself to end this soft streak before you leave the beach.
You log her in as Stray – Free Sample. You use Stray because you don't expect her back. And you still log the encounter because you need to be good at one thing, and the drug business is your one thing.
She thanks you, awkwardly, and shuffles away. There's no reason to continue conversation, you remind yourself. You call out regardless, offer sympathy for her loss. She glances back, nods her head, mumbles something like, me too, and leaves.
In the Two Whales Diner the next week, you see Joyce is back at work. Maybe she didn't take any time off at all, you think, and good for her. Better to just occupy yourself and not think of the loss. Like you did with Rachel.
Rachel.
In your corner booth, you grip your fork hard enough it bends a little. You sigh, let your stomach settle again, and resume eating your beans. You force yourself to think of something else, but that doesn't last long.
Exhausted and losing your appetite quickly, you divert your attention to the other diner patrons. You spy a red flannel shirt you recognize on some girl at the countertop. She's writing on some form or another, and you can see a tear in the left shoulder of her shirt. Rachel's shirt.
For whatever reason, she looks up, notices your glare and returns it, softer. Your mind lights in recognition of the beach girl, then darkens in confusion.
She recognizes you too, finishes her paper, hands it to Joyce (they both try to smile, but there's not enough joy left between them, you think), and moves toward you. You steel yourself, and you aren't sure why.
She arrives at your table, but doesn't know what to say. You break the silence, nice shirt, you say, more annoyed than impressed. She is surprised, embarrassed, and seems to contemplate her response a little too much for your comfort, like she needs to suppress information.
It belonged to a friend of Chloe, she offers to explain. Maybe you knew her, Rachel Amber, she says.
Yeah, yeah, you did. You loved her, loved her too much, too deep, and now she's gone and you can't dig out of the hole her death tossed you into. But you don't say that, so you just ask her to leave. It's too much, too soon, and you need to be high to deal with this.
But she doesn't go, she sits. Something about more product, the last stuff was good, and can she buy more, and the price, and all sorts of questions you don't answer in fucking diners where the pigs like to have breakfast.
You shush her, leave money for the beans and tip, and lead her to the RV. You explain, with anger in your voice, why she's an asshole for all that talk in public. And while she looks properly shamed, she also doesn't budge. There's a quiet stubbornness in her, you think.
You log her in again, as Terrier this time. She'll be back.
She gets your number from Chloe's phone, because even after the bitch is dead she still wants to screw you over.
Max is her name, she says, the next time you meet. A couple streets down from Blackwell. She has a free slot at the end of the day on Mondays, she says, owing to that Mark Jefferson shithead getting arrested.
You know he killed Rachel (with Nathan), and you'd kill him for it (Nathan too, mental ward or not). He never met you, but his actions left you broken anyway.
And she's been waiting there while you fantasize about how best to gut that fucker for at least a minute. Maybe she knows how you feel. She's looking at you with eyes that don't shine. You think maybe you recognize the look from the mirror this morning.
You get her the order, log Terrier in, and turn to leave. She got you thinking about Rachel again, and you need to toke and be alone. She doesn't stop you. Maybe she feels the same.
Tim, one of your out-of-town suppliers, asks you that Friday why you stop ordering the GHB. He wants to know if his prices are competitive. You have to mute your phone for a second while you catch your breath. You manage to tell him that demand dried up for it, that it's too risky with the recent scandal anyway. And that's all true.
But the real answers were buried that week in October.
Mondays become a weekly thing, and sometimes Max spends a few minutes to talk to you. You want her to leave mostly, but need her to stay. There's a feeling there, a comraderie in loss that you share. Neither of you speak of it. Too much pain yet.
In November, she asks for two weeks' worth of her usual. She's got time of from both the diner and Blackwell, and she's headed home for the duration. You think maybe you'll miss her, but only because she's your most reliable customer now. Nothing else.
You give her ten percent off, bulk purchase you rationalize, and she asks where you'll go for the holiday. You don't answer, stone features for your face, and she looks down, like she always does when she missteps in her words. You tell her to leave, louder than you mean, and she does.
Last Thanksgiving you spent with Rachel.
You hear from the Trucker in the Diner that the Prescott Family is almost finished with Pan Estates. Nathan has been disowned, institutionalized, and forgotten about. Jefferson took the biggest heat for what the News called the Dark Room, you guess, and Nathan got painted as a lost youth led astray. Almost sympathetic.
You know better. You know he was sick, and you know you enabled his addictions.
You remind yourself that you live in an uncaring world. Because a world that cared would have kept its Angels alive.
Rachel.
And the pain is back, threatening to tear your heart straight out through your ribs.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The waitress, Tammy or whatever, asks you if you want anything else, and your shake your head in frustration. Anger is easier than pain, you think. It's served you well enough before, anyway.
It's the first of December before you see Max again. Her eyes look dry, twin deserts that had stolen the color of rich oceans. You think to ask if she's ok, but you also think you should keep business just that, business, and you get her normal order ready as she approaches.
She has a box with her, moderate size, larger than a breadbox. She holds it out for you. Take it, she says, please. Sorry it's late, she adds, almost too quietly.
You check inside, because you can't trust her, not anyone. Turkey sandwiches, individually wrapped, a Tupperware bowl of stuffing. A single man's wrapped up Thanksgiving. And two shirts, too. You know these shirts. Your eyes sting, against your wishes. The crimson flannel, and its navy blue twin.
You blink furiously, and she takes this as anger. Wanted you to have them, shouldn't have worn it that day anyway, so sorry, she's saying.
No, you correct her. But an explanation doesn't form on your tongue, just a thank you, and take the red one, it suits you. And as she reaches to take the flannel back, you notice a familiar black spiker on her wrist.
There's another funeral the third week of the month. This one was self-inflicted.
David, you learn his real name isn't Step-Douche that day, is still alive, but broken. There was a note, the pigs say, she left on the counter. Something about all the Prices being together again. So you watch a third burial from the tree line. Max is there, same black dress. You think maybe it's a cruel fate to have to wear the same dress for the daughter and mother both.
You retreat to the beach, again. You didn't know Joyce personally, just through the Two Whales. But she was a good person, and you suppose maybe that's why she got shit on over and over. You aren't a good person, you think, that's the only way to survive.
Max finds you there, again, and asks for something stronger. You tell her to sit, and you get your top shelf stuff. Returning with a bowl and an extra chair, you prep and smoke, then offer it to Max.
Only when you're both very, very high do you talk about your loves.
She had spoken about Chloe before, mostly fond memories of their childhood days, but here, now, you saw that there was more to it than the story of a lost friend. Max clutched her chest like you do, when you wake in a cold sweat and reach for a lover that won't ever come back.
Stories of pirates, and pancakes, and sneaking into a pool somewhere.
You think maybe you and Max aren't so different after all.
And you talk about Rachel, too. Her laugh, her smell, her sweet smile. You regale Max with tales of your time with Rachel. How she found that damn feather earring. How she could befriend anyone, even the deer. How she could soothe the anger in you with a smile and a touch.
And maybe it's just the marijuana, but you feel like maybe Arcadia Bay gets sad, too. Because the sky darkens, and begins to cry. Max leaves, a little high yet, fumbling with some phone catch-a-ride app. Even as a stoner, she stays responsible, you think, almost fondly, a brother smiling at the antics of his little sister.
You fall asleep roughly that night. As if the Bay itself didn't want you to revel in the happy memories.
In January, you hear that Jefferson escaped custody during transport to his latest court appearance. The officer responsible for Jefferson was found dead in his squad car, apparently strangled.
The Arcadia Bay Police Department isn't all that well funded, you think, never was. A small town department good for rookies who don't know any better or old veterans who can't keep up the pace anymore.
You aren't surprised about the escape, but you think maybe that's just your cynicism.
Max doesn't talk about it. Her eyes go dark and distant when you mention it. You don't bring it up again.
In February, you and Max smoke together regularly.
She looks more hollow now than she did last October. You try not to think about it, really, and divert your eyes from the abyss that resides in her pupils whenever you can.
You realize there is more to this little girl than you thought, because you've seen killers and druggies and a whole host of bad men, but none were as broken as Max.
But you don't ask, because how could you help.
You're broken too.
You just hate the world instead of yourself.
No, that's not true either; you just hate the world a little more than you hate yourself.
In March, Max disappears.
You text her, but get no response.
You go to her dorm, to the former Price residence, to the Two Whales, but don't find her.
And soon, Spring Break is here, and business is booming, and you almost forget about the Terrier.
Almost.
On good days, you hope she simply left for California. Escape Arcadia, live a real life.
On bad days, you remember how well that wish turned out for Rachel.
In April, you hear a News story in the diner about a murder-suicide in a place called Crescent City, California.
It seems a young woman, possibly a drug addict, killed an older male suitor before ending her own life in a seedy Motel just off the main drive.
You think something's wrong with the story.
Max was always too nosy.
But at least she made it to California, you think bitterly.
In May, the body of Max is transported back to Arcadia Bay, after the investigation is officially closed. (Jefferson's body isn't claimed by his family.)
You don't go to the burial.
You drive. You are on Interstate 84, heading east, anywhere that isn't Arcadia Bay. You are tired of the place, tired of the death, the oppression, the tragedy.
You have cash, and you can sell drugs wherever. You just drive.
Except you've been driving non-stop for a while (when did you last stop, you wonder), and your eyes, they need a moment, just close for a little bit, just a second.
And the tree you hit, head on, off the side of the highway is nice and sturdy. And at least, in the last moment of clarity you have, you think, in the wreckage, maybe the world can finally see how broken you are.
A/N: I don't know how this actually turned out. I wrote the scenes I envisioned, and I did polish it, but I still dunno if the whole idea works. I wanted to try a few things: No dialogue, Second person perspective, and Frank's brokenness. (I read a second person POV fic on Chloe a while back, and loved it. If I can find it again, I'll give credit here.) So, if you're one of the three people that will actually read this, drop a review and let me know.
Also, there is no 'Frank B.' tag for stories on this site. He had an entry in Max's journal, and was kinda relevant to the plot, so this confuses me.