call me cal

A light snore came from the passenger side of the car, and a low rumble from the gravel underneath the car tires. He glances at the seat beside him—he’s met with the face of a small girl sleeping peacefully with a half-eaten cookie in her hand. She has his jacket on, borderline engulfing her, seemingly comfortable under the warmth of the thick material. It was his father’s jacket, who he stole it from Elijah. He grips the steering wheel and stares at the road ahead of him. The sun was now just coming up, painting an orange hue to the sky and all around.

He had been driving for hours now, recognizing the view as the outskirts of Georgia. A bittersweet memory for all the ugly reasons.

There was a quiet chirp of birds outside which prompted Josh to roll down the windows a small bit, just enough to hear better. A cold breeze invaded the car and he shivered.

Small town of rural Georgia. Everything about this felt surreal. It’s as if he blinked once and now, he’s here. He felt like a child again: Riding in Elijah’s small, 2 seat pickup truck eating scraps from the kitchen while carrying a small deer in the back for dinner later, listening to the radio with the wind blowing through his long hair. Elijah was the first he'd gone hunting with. His first kill still rings in his ears. He tried to be strong, but when the bullet flew, all he did was hide his face between the rifle.

They'd gone down the hill to be met with a rather small white-tailed deer. The weight of it on his shoulder hurt. His other siblings laughed at him when they saw his tear-stained face. His father was upset. His mama was upset. He skipped dinner the rest of the week until it stopped smelling like musk and gamey, watching the boys on TV. After they'd finished eating his kill, he went down to the green lake by the forest, waiting until it turned dark. He sat by it, rolling up his pants and walking around the edge with the water up to his calves. It was warm, just like the deer when he'd touched it to pray over it. Elijah said it was good practice to say thanks for its sacrifice. Though, it didn't feel like that. It felt like a taunt, for whenever he felt the warm embrace of anything touching his skin. He never let anyone get close him as a child after that night.

Except he isn’t a child anymore, and he hasn’t been a child in a long time. He’s 23 now, going back to Nevada with Elizabeth. She had said she was 9 when he asked a few hours ago, which would make her 2 years older when his family started to be weird with him.

What they did to him is something he couldn’t do to anyone else.

Not like Elijah did.

He half expected to see him at the house again, working on his double barrel shotgun. He loved that thing to death, and he had almost used it to kill himself when he was younger. It wouldn’t have mattered now— the shotgun was left propped up against Elijah’s creaky bed frame in North Carolina. Even if he had been there, he’d find his words blank.

Fucking figures. Elijah’s always been a coward.

That’s always been the difference between them. At least he knows his limits and knows when to step out when he’s reached them. Elijah, however, never understood that. He reached far beyond what he should have. A greed he could recognize better than anybody—he felt it on the days where Elijah needed “company.” It left scars on his hips. On his knees. It made him feel disgusting. Sometimes he finds that greed when he stands in front of a church, staring at the cross like it was the one that hung over Elijah’s bed. He’d felt alone those day’s he’d asked someone— anyone— for help under the low yellow, fluorescent lights. He blamed his low faith for no one answering his prayers, that he wasn’t able to escape him like they escaped the murderer in the trashy horror films they’d watched together on late nights. Of course, naturally, he’d left Elijah in his bed back in North Carolina 4 years ago, stumbling down the stairs with blood stained hands.

But there’s something about that house where he found himself believing in God more than ever; a few seconds longer and he doesn’t know what would’ve happened to her.

Honestly, he doesn’t think he cared whether he stepped out that house alive or not. Maybe he wanted something to prove, something to remember, something to dwell on. The last note of his life could be played right where the symphony began. A genetic cycle of exploitation, ending with him. He had nothing left for himself— except when he saw that scared little face huddled between boxes in the closet of his childhood bedroom, he never wanted to live more.

He jolted back to attention when his car ran over a rather large rock— or a branch— and noticed a familiar sign up ahead. It looked like one of those “Goodbye, You’re Leaving the State!” signs, evident with the bold enthusiastic looking font. Everything was sort of blurry since he discarded his glasses before his trip. Or maybe it was because of the growing hot feeling behind his eyes. He tells himself that no, he’s not shaking. That’s just the car. He definitely doesn’t feel the wetness on his face or how hard it is to suddenly breathe. He sucks in a sharp breath— slapping his hand over his mouth before he can let out a light sob. There’s a slight shuffle in the passenger seat, and he could see Elizabeth’s face relax from the small grimace she had for a second.

He slows the car down to a stop right before he passes the sign, and exhales.

His head falls onto the steering wheel, puts it in park, and quietly exits the car. The cold winter air bites his skin but he doesn’t care at this point. He’s choking up now, pacing up and down the road, careful not to pass the sign. He grabs at his wrists feeling lateral, rough bumps on the skin. It's too much, it's all too much. The world is spinning, tunneling into a hazy scene. He steps on a fairly large sized rock, and he almost falls onto the pavement below. Okay, calm down. He makes out the figure of the car until he trips his way over, holding his head in one hand and tracing the body of the truck with the other. Once he makes it to the small door of the trunk does he realize that he's been driving with it open. Whoops. He must've forgot to shut it when he loaded all his important items from the apartment and threw it all into the back. Doesn't matter now— he practically climbs into it, making himself comfortable on his back with his limbs sort of sprawled out, staring into the sky above.

There’s too much to think of and too much to regret. His parents were easy to hate: just like second nature. But Elijah? No, he doesn’t think he could ever hate— or blame him the way he does everyone else. Because it’s different with him, he guesses. He knew (or lied to himself) that Elijah really didn't mean it, and that it wasn't like that. He was only frustrated, and upset, and hurting and didn't know where to turn and he was drunk. Elijah protected him for years from their parents, from Lia, all those dirtbags who hurt him before. It would be so stupid for him to think that his brother was capable of doing that as well. It would go against everything Elijah had fought against.

He wouldn't do that.

He wouldn't have hurt him like that, right?

Right?

He had barely registered the sound of the car door opening and shutting, or the small movement of weight beside him. Elizabeth had climbed in at some point— he hasn't been keeping track of time. There was nothing said between the two of them, just light sniffling from his side and shuffling from hers. He wiped his face with the back of his palm, and he felt her eyes staring at him. It wasn't until he remembered his scars, and he quickly brought them back down to his side. The last thing he wants right now is for her to be scared by him.

"'Ya weren't in the car when I woke up, " Her voice was weak; timid.

He turned to look at her. She played with the frayed ends of the sleeves of his jacket. The way her deep red curls landed on her face almost covered both her eyes.

"I didn't see 'ya anywhere. I thought 'ya left me.

...

I was scared."

There was a shake in her voice at the end.

"I'm sorry, " He shivered and he felt a lump in his throat. The start of an infection, maybe? I mean, there was no way he wasn't going to be sick after this. The only thing he has on are a thick pair of jeans and a flimsy tee shirt he's had for years. It's still winter, beginning of January, actually. Another year has gone by, except now he's really done it. He had promised himself to never return to Georgia 'no matter what.' He's grateful he's never listened to himself.

There's always been an insistent, emphatic anger growing in him every time he'd fail to follow up to what he previously promised himself. Waking up on time became staying clean; small became big, big became the impossible.

They watched as the clouds moved from tree to tree, as the leaved swayed with the wind. It smelled faintly of mildew, like how it did before the flowers would bloom in his mama's garden. He remembered how she would only let him get close and not his brothers. They were tough, played dirty and tussled on the lawn. Mama would fuss over the grass stains she would have to wash out their clothes. He wasn't like them, as much as he pretended to be, and she knew. She'd told him late at night, when the bottle slipped through her hand, that she saw what was to happen.

That he was going to fall in love with an angel, and it made him weak.

After that night, life was never the same. He saw the people he loved as angels. And in remembering her words, he'd push them away, in fear of another wound. He thought he deserved it, barricading the room where he slept with stars in his eyes so they could leave him alone. With Elijah, he couldn't believe the same. If he were to want him, he would let him; because he was only half of himself when he stepped into the room. Surely, Elijah had felt the same. He definitely knew that deep down, Elijah really loved him for who he was, and not what he could be used for.

Because when they left that night, he'd saw Elijah holding onto the wheel shaking and crying. Looking back at it now, maybe it was his plan all along: it's why Elijah looked at him with guilt the whole ride to North Carolina. He prays it isn't true, since that would mean what he endured could have been avoided. Would he even try to change things, were he to have the chance?

He's full on sobbing now, and he hears sniveling next to him. It's awful knowing she could have gone through the same things he did. It's awful to know anyone did. There's a certain hurt to it that's irreplicable, knowing that if only he tried to fight back just a little bit more, it could've never been. They were just two children in a motel hoping to escape it all, and they only dug deeper into their hearts.

Now, it feels easy to forget. Maybe forgive, too.

Maybe, he knows that if he blames Elijah then he wouldn't be able to deny all those events prior to moving to Las Vegas. Because then it would make it real, and that's something he doesn't want. For those boys on TV were just like him; a clueless, innocent body amongst those who were looking to hurt.

Only now does he know that the worst had happened to him.

For when the angel returns, only then will he understand the words his mama said to him.

So, he will wait; for he is punished by love.