Chapter Sixty-Three
Cade
I take a break to wretch in the dirt, using the shovel to hold myself up. It’s the eighth time my stomach has revolted and there’s nothing left, but it’s like my body is trying to expel the black tar that is now my soul.
I only wish it could.
I’ve been heaving over a half-dug grave for hours, and it hasn’t changed a thing. No amount of remorse can save me. I tried praying. I got down on my knees in the shack and begged over Bobby’s body to any god that would listen for his life. But the only thing I felt was the devil’s breath on the back of my neck, hot and impatient for collection day. He’s finally sunk his teeth in me, and he’s never going to let go.
My fate is sealed.
I wipe the back of my dirt caked hand across my mouth and then spit, the soil gritty between my teeth. It’s under my nails, in my hair, and down my shirt. Every muscle in my body is burning with fatigue, and I’m dehydrated, but I can’t stop. Not now. That respite I hoped for is gone, and I’ll never be able to rest my head on its pillow. With the die cast, there is only one outcome now.
I stab the scoop, hands trembling, and add to the growing mound on my right. I avoid looking left, at the sheets and the outline beneath them. He’s probably cold by now, stiff and pallid, and the realization causes a fresh bout of razor tears to spill down my cheeks.
He’s never going to be warm again. He’s never going to wear that stupid fucking parka or blush when Callie kisses him. He’s not going to graduate and go to college for environmental conservation. He’s not going to be anything but cold, and I’m dreading, downright terrified, of the moment that the hole is deep enough and I have to drag him into it, to feel his lifeless body in my arms.
I turn and heave again, choking on bile that burns the back of my throat. Of all the fucking people, he was the one that never needed to die. He didn’t deserve it. Not him.
A hot hate for myself rings its hands around my neck, cutting off my airway and suddenly choking me. My vision spots as the forest sways. The shovel falls from my grasp, and I hit my knees, my body wracking and desperate for air. Panic claws at me as I fist the dirt, my heart thumping in my eardrums. I don’t deserve the air. I don’t want it. I don’t want to breathe , but my body fights for it, regardless. Why should I get to when Bobby can’t?
A ragged scream, with no way out, backs up in my chest. Because I have to breathe. I have to. His death can’t be for nothing. I have to finish what I started. For his sake. I have to. I focus on the soil beneath me and try to feel its chill, try to find a way to breathe and remind myself that I have to make it right. That I have to make sure this school burns for what it did, what it made me do to him.
I push everything else away. The fantasy of Japan and Sky and a long life. The what if’s with her pretty eyes begging me not to go. The possibility that tonight may not have condemned me if I had just listened to her. The guilt and self hatred of the monster I’ve become. The truth and realization that I’m not built to be a killer. That this is not for me. That I never could have stood on that stage and pressed the button.
I shove it down.
Because I am a killer now. And I have to push that button.