Chapter 40 Elias
Elias
This. This is why I don’t drink.
My head’s pounding, my mouth’s dry, and the taste coating my tongue is absolutely fucking disgusting. As far as I recall, my drink of choice last night was whisky, not battery acid.
Maybe because I only shimmied out of my hoodie. It lies crumbled on the floor, my jeans still on, the belt off, zipper down. The light spilling inside my bedroom pierces through my skull, amplifying my headache.
“Goddamn it.”
I cover my face with a pillow, then yank it right off, my eyebrows scrunching. Burnt toast smell fills my nose.
I better be having a fucking stroke. The alternative means my best friend decided I’m in need of immediate supervision.
And that means I fucked up. Again.
Pushing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, I swallow the pang of guilt before it festers, then sit up.
Time to face the music.
Hyde’s a good friend. Best I ever had, if I’m honest. He’s my older brother by choice, despite being my age.
Acts older, too, with that higher sense of duty, and compulsive need to take care of people he loves whether they want him to or not.
He’s mostly patient but rub him the wrong way and he goes nuclear.
I’m about to face that nuclear side.
He’s probably fuming about the mess in the kitchen. Fuming that I ditched his calls yesterday. Fuming that when I finally called, I couldn’t pronounce his name without slurring.
Fuck.
What did I say that made him jump in his car and head straight here? He knows why I drank myself into oblivion, and yet he’s here... the one time he needed me to hold it together so he could be elsewhere.
Yeah, Hyde is a good friend.
Me? Not so much.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, grab the discarded hoodie and shove it over my head.
The second I step out of my bedroom Three Days Grace and “I hate everything about you’ hits my ears. A little on the nose. Hyde’s way of saying he’s pissed without saying it.
He stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a spatula in hand, the mouth-watering scent of eggs and bacon wafting the air.
“You would’ve had a choice five minutes ago,” he says when I drop into a chair. “Too late now. Scrambled it is.”
“Why are you here? I don’t remember asking you to come.”
“Didn’t need an invitation.”
He slides the eggs and bacon onto two plates, adds sliced avocado and the slightly burnt toasts. Grabbing both servings, he finally turns, cutting me a look, his lip curling.
“You look like shit.”
“Feel about the same. Shouldn’t you be with your sister? What did I say that made you come?”
“A lot of incoherent bullshit.”
I drag my fingers through my hair and grab a fork, my hand not as steady as it should be. “I was celebrating. Got it out of my systems and I’m fine.”
“Eat, or I’ll force-feed you.”
He’s not bluffing. Hyde’s very particular about food. Skip a meal and he’ll be there with a lecture. Maybe that’s what I told him. That I wasn’t eating.
Not for the lack of food.
When my father was pronounced dead some thirty-six hours ago, most of our neighbors stood on their front porches. The ambulance sirens drew them out not long before the paramedics wheeled the body out of the house.
The next morning Miriam knocked on my door, her signature casserole in hand. I tried it at neighborhood BBQ five years ago and wouldn’t put myself through that misery again even if I were starving.
I dig into the fluffy eggs, my tongue waking up under the salty, buttery taste. “You shouldn’t have left Millie alone.”
“She’s not alone. Dash and Noah are looking out for her.” He chases a mouthful of avocado down with a sip of water. “She’s the one who sent me here.”
I pause mid-bite, something ugly twisting in my chest. She shouldn’t have to put me above her comfort. I already failed her once... and I’m doing it all over again.
I haven’t even met her yet and she’s already paying for my existence. Fo my instability. For my rage.
I drop the fork, the clinking sound it makes like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. “Go back to Gravemont, Hyde. I’ll handle the funeral.”
“You’re not handling shit, Elias!” He bangs his fist on the table, then exhales through his nose, dousing his temper.
He only uses my first name when he’s angry.
“You were comatose in bed when I arrived. The house was unlocked and smelled like a goddamn distillery. It looked more like you were drowning in guilt than celebrating.”
I drop my eyes back to my plate.
“Creed,” he prompts, forcing me to look up again. “Do you need me to call a lawyer? Will the autopsy show—”
“A heart attack,” I cut in. “That’s what it’ll show.”
I glance out the window. The soft hum of rain pattering the windows grates on my nerves. It hasn’t stopped since my father heaved his last breath. The sky mourns him because no one else will. Someone should, right? Death is a tragedy...
Not this one.
This one called for a celebration, so I raised one glass to his absence yesterday... and then one more, and another.
One for every scar his violence left on me.
One for every time I counted the seconds between blows.
One for every lie I told the school nurse, our neighbors, my teachers—fell off my bike, tripped on the stairs.
One for every meal I ate standing because sitting hurt.
One for the winter he left me outside, barefoot in the snow, because I didn’t salute him when he came home. I was six.
One for every ‘sir’ I forced out past split lips.
One for the nights he made me polish his boots with shaking fingers while he drank more than he could stomach.
And one for that little boy who learned how to stop crying before he learned how to write.
“I stood in the doorway,” I say, pushing a piece of bacon around the plate. “Came down to tell him I’m heading back to Gravemont in the morning. Not sure why I bothered.”
Hyde sets his plate aside, offering me his full attention. I think he knows he won’t like what’s coming, but he’s wearing the same patient look he wore the day we met freshmen year.
I walked into our dorm with a black eye, split lip, and bleeding knuckles after picking a fight with some random guy just to send a message: don’t fuck with me.
Violence became my defense mechanism the summer I hit puberty and grew into myself. From then on, I always hit first. Not my father but everyone else. I refused to become a victim again and I lashed out at the smallest sign of ridicule or bullying.
Dad stopped throwing fists when I came home bloodied in my sophomore year in high school. He knew I’d hit back.
Hyde was the first person who didn’t pretend he couldn’t see the rage clinging to me. Didn’t look away like everyone else before him. He introduced himself, wrapped my knuckles, and made me a sandwich.
“He didn’t reply,” I continue. “Just nodded, took a sip of his drink, turned red in the face and grabbed his chest... I didn’t kill him.
But I watched him die and did nothing.” I meet Hyde’s stare head-on.
“I stood there for half an hour, watching his skin turn ashen. I only called the ambulance once I was certain the paramedics wouldn’t bring him back. ”
Hyde doesn’t speak right away. That’s the thing I like most about him, he doesn’t spew generic lines. He doesn’t offer comfort just for the sake of filling the silence.
“He got what he deserved,” he finally says, then crosses the room to pour me a cup of coffee. “Did you call your aunt?”
“Not yet. I’ll let her know when everything’s organized. Otherwise, she’ll request full honors. I don’t want a thirteen-gun salute. I don’t want some fucking stranger in a uniform calling him a hero. He was a coward.”
Hyde doesn’t argue. He sets the cup before me and by the time I burn my tongue on the first sip, he’s on the phone with the funeral home, arranging a time for us to go in.
“We’re leaving in forty minutes.” He sets his phone on the counter. “You have to sign some papers and pick a casket.”
“A cardboard box would be too much.”
“That’s not an option. What about the obituary?”
I rub a hand over my jaw. There’s a scar there that runs from my chin to my ear. My father’s wedding ring did that. The only thing he kept after he buried Mom when I was five.
“Jeremiah Creed. Fifty-eight. Finally died.”
Hyde cracks up a smile. “Maybe died suddenly will work better.” His phone pings and his smiles widens. “Millie. Looks like she’s enjoying Dash’s company.”
“What did she say?”
“She sent a knife emoji.”
That makes me laugh but the sound dies in my throat when I realize how foreign it sounds in this house.
No one laughed here for years.
“How’s she doing?” I ask, dragging my mind back to the present. “Any improvement?”
“She’s talking more.”
“To you?”
“Mostly. But she said hi to Noah ten seconds in, so that’s good. Even Dash got a few words.” He downs the rest of his water and checks his wristwatch. “Go grab a shower, Creed. You’re not getting in my car smelling the way you do.” His gaze flicks to the hall. “You want me to clean out his things?”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I didn’t even think about that. “Not today.”
“I can bag the obvious while you shower.”
“No, leave it for now.”
He drops it when I stand, but before I head into my bedroom, someone knocks on the door. I move to open it, Hyde hovering close behind.
Miriam stands on the porch in a flowery raincoat, holding a glass dish wrapped in foil. The smell hits me before she speaks: onions, ketchup, and something burnt beneath it.
“I know it’s not much, but I thought I’d at least spare you the trouble of cooking this week,” she says, eyes softening. “How are you holding up, sweetheart? Are you doing okay?”
I force a nod and Hyde takes the meatloaf before I have to.
“We appreciate it, Miriam. Thank you,” he says.
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll make sure to return the dish.”
She gives me one more pity-filled smile and leaves, her shoes squelching down the wet steps.
As soon as the door closes, Hyde peels the foil back, curiosity getting the better of him.
Doesn’t he know it killed the fucking cat?
He rears back when steam curls up, letting the foil fall back into place. “You could patch drywall with this.”
“Whatever you do, don’t eat it.”
He nods, heading for the kitchen, hopefully to dispose of the meatloaf before it crawls out of the dish.
***
“Closed or open casket?” the funeral director asks.
“Closed.”
He scribbles the choice on the form.
I never want to see my father again. His dead, ashen face as he lay on the living room floor, eyes open and dull is exactly how I want to remember him.
Hyde sits beside me, forearms on his knees, gaze fixed on the stack of papers we’ve already gone through.
“We can arrange for a service here,” Rivers continues, flipping another page. “Or at the gravesite. Either way, we’ll coordinate with the military for the honors.”
I grind my teeth until a dull throb starts in my molars. My aunt will have a fit when she arrives on Saturday and finds the graveyard empty save for me, my friends, and her. Maybe a couple of neighbors too.
“No honors,” I grit out.
His pen pauses, hovering over the page. “I’m sorry?”
“No honors,” I repeat. “No uniform, no salute, no flag. He’s not getting a hero’s sendoff.”
Rivers clears his throat, polite confusion creeping into his voice. “Mr. Creed, I understand this is difficult, but I knew your father personally. He earned his stars and a military send-off.”
“I said no,” I snap, making the man flinch.
“I understand.” Funny. He doesn’t look like he understands, more like he’s afraid I’ll break his glasses with my fist if he doesn’t drop it. “We’ll proceed with a private burial.”
“Good. What’s next?” I can’t wait to get out of here. The smell of disinfectants and lilies makes my stomach turn.
“Casket selection. We have several suitable options for a man of your father’s importance. Oak, mahogany, cherry—”
“The cheapest one you’ve got.”
Hyde exhales through his nose. “He means plain pine.”
“Of course. I’ll show you.” The director stands, lip curling in disgust before he smooths his expression into polite pity.
He leads us down a narrow hallway, then left, into the showroom where different caskets line the walls. Rivers gestures toward the far end. “This one’s simple, unvarnished—”
“It’ll do,” I stop him mid-pitch. “Sold.”
“Very well, please move to the front desk. I’ll prepare the bill.” He turns on his heel and rushes out of the showroom.
Hyde steps closer, clasping his hand on my shoulder. “You did good.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Did I?”
“You didn’t throw him through the wall.”
“Yet. Set the bar a bit lower and I might actually clear it.” I pull my credit card out, handing it over. “Settle the bill, alright? I need fresh air.”
He takes the card, and I’m gone before he adds anything.
Outside, the rain’s stopped, so I light a cigarette, staring at the grey sky. Hyde finds me leaning against the hood, smoke curling between my fingers.
“You good?” he asks.
“I hate that you came,” I admit. “But I’m glad you did.”
“That’s usually how it goes with us.”
“Yeah, me fucking up and you showing up even when I give you every reason not to.”
He shrugs. “I like hard cases.”
I inhale a cloud of smoke, bracing for a rare bout of honesty. “I’m sorry I made you leave her.”
“You didn’t make me. She sent me.” He looks down the street toward the shop on the corner. “You want to grab anything before we head back? Beer? Whisky?”
I shake my head, flicking the ash into a puddle. “No.”
“Alright, good. Back to normal.”
Yeah. Back to normal... whatever the fuck that ever was.