Secondhand Garagyre

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

PAISLEY

Two days later.

“ Hey Patrick , it’s me again. Another full filled week of work under the belt. Thank goodness it’s Friday . Another day trapped in that office would have been torture. The piteous stares and fake compassionate comments from everyone make me want to scream. I can’t believe I have to be a real adult and function when you’re not here. How am I supposed to exist without you? You’re my twin…”

I sigh as I look down at the smooth stone and read the writing found there for the millionth time. “ Here lies Patrick Edward Taylor , beloved son and brother.” His birthday and date of death are listed below. It’s only been a month since the accident that took my twin’s life and left me broken inside and out. The drunk driver who caused the wreck walked away without a scratch on him and suffered no repercussions for his actions. He’s the son of a local, wealthy businessman, and the old adage “ It isn’t what you know, but who you know ” has been implemented as a result of his actions.

Bradley Archibald Thomas III hasn’t been arrested or seen the inside of a jail cell for what he did to us. My family has been torn apart by the irresponsible actions of a spoiled child in the body of a man. The fact that he has pursued me relentlessly in high school and college is the icing on the cake. He’s a prick with a false sense of entitlement because of his daddy’s money and social standing. Patrick warned me years ago to never be alone with him, and I’ve taken his advice seriously.

My parents are inconsolable because a parent isn’t supposed to bury their child. And then there’s me, the twin who lived. It should have been me who died, but Paddy saw what was about to happen and jerked the wheel of his truck so his side was hit on impact instead of mine. My brother’s selfless actions saved my life but ended his. The level of survivor’s guilt I’ve been dealing with is crippling.

“ Mom and Dad are doing okay, or are doing as okay as they can, considering the fact that you’re dead, and the piece of shit who killed you is walking around breathing free air. He had the audacity to come up to me at the grocery store last week and try to speak to me like nothing happened. As if he didn’t get behind the wheel plastered drunk and kill you as a result. He had zero chance with me before all of this, and now, he could be the last man on the planet, and I would still chop his dick off with a dull paring knife,” I ended in a fury-filled whisper.

My family’s plot in the cemetery is in a secluded corner, but it wouldn’t be wise for me to openly threaten one of the Thomases . I glance around to make sure I am still alone, thankful there isn’t another living soul in sight.

The sole company I keep here is the stone gargoyle bordering my family’s burial plot from the Joneses . My grief was too sharp at the funeral for me to notice much of the area surrounding Patrick’s grave, but its stone visage has become increasingly familiar to me throughout the month.

It doesn’t look like most gargoyles do. This one is almost… handsome in a way. It’s been carved in an interesting pose.

Instead of crouching like it’s about to spring off the pedestal to defend its domain like most gargoyles are, this one is seated in a chair of sorts with his head buried between his hands. It’s a pose of utter exhaustion, grief, and dejection.

There’s no doubt the artist intended the statue to be a male. The facial structure is overtly masculine with sharp cheekbones, a protruding brow, and full lips. The fact that he has spikes jutting from his chin and some sort of textured jawline does nothing to detract from his appeal.

The palms of the hands end on the raised brows so any passerby can see the intricate detail the artist has taken on the face. The statue’s eyes are closed, but you can see the tear tracks running down his face. Wings capped in vicious-looking claws drape over the shoulders while horns hold his long hair off of his face. Intricate detail has gone into the hair. You can see individual strands of hair where it hangs down on either side of his head. His tail drapes across his lap, ending down by his three-toed feet that connects to digitigrade legs.

I googled that one because I haven’t seen that type of legs on anything else except the werewolves in Hollyweird movies.

My shoulders heave with a sigh. I really need to get a life. I’m more fascinated with a statue that borders my dead brother’s grave than I am in any man who’s asked me out in the last several years. With that thought, I gather my jacket and purse, then stand to leave. Melancholy fills me as I gaze at the only remnant left of my beloved twin.

“ Bye , Paddy . I’ll see you next time. Tell Gramma and Grandpa I said hello for me. I love you tons and bunches.”

As I step around the bench situated at the base of the gargoyle’s pedestal, I reach out and touch the pad the statue is connected to in a brief caress. The smooth stone under my fingers seemingly flares with warmth at my touch.

I shrug it off as a figment of my imagination. The stone is just warm from the rays of the setting sun, nothing more.