Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ROXY
Four years later
The fox has been dead for maybe three days.
I can tell by the way the flies have settled into the carcass, the way the fur has started to lose its luster, becoming dull and matted where the blood has dried.
The eyes are open, clouded over in a milky white, but still there.
That's what I love about the fresh ones.
The eyes. They hold something the older corpses don't. A memory of what it felt like to see, a memory of the end.
I crouch on the shoulder of Route 89, my knees pressing into the gravel, and adjust my sketchpad against my thighs.
The sun is setting behind the red rocks, casting the landscape in a burnt orange glow that makes the fox look almost beautiful, like it is alive, resting in a peaceful sleep.
But I know better. Beauty is just another lie people tell themselves to avoid looking at the truth.
And the truth is always ugly.
While I suck on my cherry lollipop, my pencil moves across the paper in quick, confident strokes.
I've drawn death enough times to know its shapes by heart, the way a body collapses in on itself, the strange angles limbs take when there is no life left to hold them up.
That emptiness that replaces whatever spark had been there before.
People don't like to look at this kind of stuff.
They'll drive right past and maybe glance over, then look away quickly like the sight might contaminate them.
But I can’t look away. I never could when it comes to death. When it comes down to endings, and what is left behind.
The cassette player in my van is blasting Depeche Mode, the sound drifting out through the open door.
Enjoy the Silence. How fucking perfect. I only listen to 80s music, and anyone who judges can fuck off.
It’s my vibe. I hum along as I work, adding shadow to the fox's open mouth, noting the way its tongue lolls out, dark and swollen.
There was something so innocent and honest about death.
It didn't pretend. It didn't smile when it didn't mean it or laugh at jokes that weren't funny. It just was.
That's more than I could say for most people.
I've spent my whole life watching people lie.
My parents lied when they said they'd be home for dinner, then didn't show up until I was already asleep.
My classmates lied when they said they wanted to be friends, then whispered about how weird I was behind my back.
Teachers lied when they said I had potential, then looked at my drawings with barely concealed disgust, like I was sick for seeing the world the way I did.
Maybe I was sick. But at least I never wore a mask to please others, to hide from reality.
Removing the sucker from my mouth, I lean in closer to the fox, studying the way the maggots have started their work in the softer tissue.
Nature's cleanup crew. Everything has a purpose, even in death, actually, especially in death.
I use my retro polaroid camera and snap a few photos at different angles, close-ups of the decay, the way the light hits the matted fur.
These will sell well. I have buyers who appreciate this kind of thing.
People who understand that darkness isn't something to be afraid of but is something to be documented, preserved and celebrated.
The general art world didn't want my work. Too disturbing, they said. Too morbid. But the private collectors? They pay good money for this kind of thing. For rawness. And I give it to them, one drawing at a time.
I add more detail to the sketch with the delicate bones of the fox's paw, the way its tail curves against the asphalt. My hoodie is bright pink today, neon bright, a middle finger to the darkness I’m documenting.
I like the contrast. It’s funny the way people look at me with confusion, like they can't reconcile the girl in the colorful clothes with the girl who draws dead things on the side of the road.
Good. Let them be confused. Confusion is closer to truth than certainty ever was.
The wind starts to pick up, carrying the scent of sage and something else that I have become familiar with, decay, sweet and sickly.
I breathe it in. While others would gag, I'd learned to appreciate it.
It was the smell of transformation, of one thing becoming another.
The fox wasn't a fox anymore. It was food for flies, for maggots, for the earth itself.
It was more useful dead than it had ever been alive.
Sometimes I wondered if the same would be true for me.
I left home the day after I graduated high school.
Packed up my vintage van, this beautiful old VW I'd bought with money I'd saved from selling my art online, and just drove.
No plan, no destination. Just away. Away from the parents who'd never really seen me, from the town that had never felt like home, leaving all those people with their fake smiles and their empty conversations.
I've been on the road for four years now, and I've never felt more alive. Ironic, considering I spend most of my time with the dead.
The van is my sanctuary. I've decorated it myself with fairy lights strung across the ceiling, old records stacked in milk crates, a cassette player I'd found at a thrift store in Nevada.
I have a never ending supply of cherry lollipops that have become an addiction when I draw, love those fuckers.
The bed is covered in blankets I've collected from different states, each one a memory of a place I'd been, a thing I'd seen. I would call it vintage hobo chic. It isn’t much, but it’s mine.
And it represents everything about me. No pretense or theatrical performance. Just me and my art and the open road.
I finish the basic outline of the fox and start adding texture, the fine details that will make it feel real.
The trick is making death feel as real on paper as it did in life.
People want to sanitize it, make it peaceful and clean or act like it doesn’t exist. But death isn't peaceful.
It can be violent and messy and raw. It is the most honest thing in the world and something we will all experience one day.
The sun dips lower, and the shadows grow longer.
I should probably get going soon and find a place to park for the night, maybe a rest stop or a quiet side road where no one will bother me.
But I’m not done yet. The drawing isn't finished, and I never leave a piece unfinished. That’s the rule.
Once I start documenting something, I see it through to the end.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably another message from a buyer, asking about new work, but I ignore it. They can wait. The fox can't.
I add more shadow to the eye sockets, darkening them until they look like voids. Empty. That's what death is, an emptying out. All the things that made you you just…gone. And what’s left is just meat and bone, returning to the soil. Honest. Simple. True.
A car passes by, slowing down slightly, but I don't look up. People frequently slow down when they see me, because to them it’s weird, a girl alone on the side of the road, crouched over something dead.
They probably think I need help, or maybe they think I’m crazy.
Either way, they never stop. They just slow down, look, then speed up again, eager to get away from whatever weirdness they'd witnessed.
Fine by me. I don't need their help. Don't want it.
The cassette clicks over to the next song. Stripped. I smile. The universe has a sense of humor sometimes. Stripped down to nothing, nothing to protect you from the harsh reality. That's what I want. That's what I'd always wanted. No masks, no lies, no pretending to be something I’m not.
Just truth.
I’m adding the final details to the individual hairs of the fox's coat, the texture of the road beneath it, when I feel something that pushes my soul off balance. That prickle on the back of my neck, the one that tells me I’m being watched.
Not by a passing car, no, this is different, as it feels like I’m being watched closely. Someone has stopped.
I don't look up right away, instead, I keep drawing, my pencil moving steadily across the paper.
My senses sharpen, hyperaware of everything around me.
The sound of boots on gravel. The faint smell of cigarette smoke.
The presence of someone standing just behind me, close enough that I can feel their shadow falling across my work.
Others would be scared by a stranger approaching, but fear requires caring about what happens to you, and I'd stopped caring about that a long time ago. If someone wants to hurt me, let them try. At least it would be interesting.
I finish the stroke I’ve been working on, then slowly look up.
He is tall. That is the first thing I notice.
Tall and broad, with messy black hair that falls across his forehead like he's just rolled out of bed. Brown eyes, dark and intense, fixed on my sketchpad with an expression I can't quite read. His forearms are covered in tattoos that look like intricate designs that disappear under the sleeves of his black t-shirt. Everything about him is moody. Black jeans, black boots, black leather jacket slung over one shoulder despite the heat, even though I’m crouched here wearing a hoodie, but it’s to protect me from the dust.
He looks like death dressed up and walking around. He’s also fucking hot, and he is staring at my drawing like it is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"That's good," he says, his voice low and rough, like gravel under tires. "Really good."
I don’t respond as I watch him, waiting to see what he'll do next.
In the past when anyone saw my work, they'd make some uncomfortable comment about how morbid it was, how it was disturbing.
They'd laugh nervously and change the subject.
But this guy... he wasn't laughing. He wasn't uncomfortable. He was actually interested.
He crouches down beside me, close enough that I can smell him, cigarettes and leather and something else that is woodsy, so delicious that I want to take a sniff of his neck. His eyes move from the drawing to the fox, then back again, comparing both. This is an interesting turn of events.
"You got the eyes right," he says, pointing to the sketch. "I’ve seen drawings where the artist fucks up the eyes by making them too alive, like they are aware. But you got it. That emptiness. That's what the end looks like."
Something shifts in my chest. I’m sparking with this guy as he sees it like me, and that’s never happened before.
As I look at him I see myself, he carries a weight that I have carried all of my life.
Trying to hide the dark void that we carry, for being able to see the world for what it truly is.
I can sense it in him straight away, he is immune to the masks society wears and fuck is it refreshing to know there is someone else like me out there.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice coming out rougher than I intend.
He smiles, and it isn’t a nice smile. It is sharp and dangerous and completely genuine. I think I’m crushing.
"Dom," he says. "And you?"
"Roxy."
"Nice ride," he says, nodding toward the van behind us. I look back and see his car parked a few yards behind it. It looks sporty, and unsurprisingly it’s black to match his clothes. It looks a few years old, but matches him well.
I should be really creeped out that this stranger is talking to me, and should consider grabbing my stuff and leaving, as we’ve all seen those horror movies.
But I’m the dumb girl and don’t. Instead, I feel something I haven't felt in years.
Curiosity in another person and the possibility that I've found someone who understands me.
Someone who sees the world the way I do.
He is still looking at the drawing, his expression almost reverent.
"You sell these?"
"Yeah."
"To who?"
"People who see the beauty in endings. The dirty truth of life."
He laughs, a husky sound that sends shivers down my spine.
“The truth. Yeah, most people can't handle the truth."
"No, they can't."
We stay like this for a moment, crouched on the side of the road, the dead fox between us, the sun setting behind the red rocks. Two strangers who aren't really strangers at all. Two people who recognize something in each other that the rest of the world can't see.
Dom stands up, brushing the dust off his jeans. "You heading somewhere?"
"Nowhere specific."
"Good," he said. "Neither am I."
With those parting words, he walks back to his car and slams the door as he gets inside. The engine roars to life, loud and aggressive. He looks over at me, and even from this distance I can see those dark eyes holding mine.
"See you around, Roxy," he says as he drives by with his window down. And then he was gone, disappearing down the highway in a cloud of dust and exhaust.
I sit here for a long time after he leaves, staring at the empty road, my heart beating faster than it should.
Something important had taken place in that brief meeting.
I didn't know what yet, but I could feel that shift in the air, that sense that everything was about to change. Let’s call it a gut feeling, intuition. Huh.
I look down at my drawing of the dead fox, then at the real thing lying on the asphalt.
It feels like a sign, telling me my twin had just introduced themself.
For most of my life I have hated being around others, tolerating people because society tells me to, but this is huge.
This is the first person who has ever made me want to know more about them.
To have an actual interest in another human, all because we clicked over something others would judge.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts as I pack up my supplies, climb into my van, and start the engine. The cassette player kicks back on, filling the space with music. I pull onto the highway, heading north toward nowhere, and try to ignore the way my hands are shaking.
I also ignore the way I’m already hoping I'll see him again.