Tracks

I awoke with a start. Jerking up in bed, I reached blindly over in search of the lamp that was supposed to be there—the old Spiderman lamp that had been there for ten years—but my fingers found nothing. I stopped short when my eyes adjusted and I realized why it was missing.

I wasn’t there anymore. In that room. In my house.

I wasn’t lying in my brother’s bed.

With a sigh, I dropped my face in my hands and pulled my legs up to my chest. I let the tears come, as they always did when I woke from one of my nightmares. There’d been a time when I never used to cry; when I’d break ankles and wrists, bruise elbows and bones and I’d never shed a tear. Now…I felt like it was all I ever did.

It had been a month since that night. A month since my brother had been murdered right in front of me. People say it gets easier with time; that you grieve and you move on. Well, they’re wrong. Anybody who says that is an idiot. Those people…obviously they never lost a sibling.

I stayed like that for a long while, curled into my little ball, sobbing in the darkness, trying to keep my voice low. Right next door, my cousin slept and the last thing I wanted was for her to wake up and come over here. The last thing I wanted was to see her face.

I never should’ve agreed to this. I never should’ve agreed to come here. But after Aaron’s death, my parents had insisted—as did my mother’s brother’s wife—and out of nothing more than guilt, I’d said yes. Now, I knew it was the worst decision I’d ever made.

Second worse, I realized. The first was letting Aaron convince me going to that skate park after hours was okay.

But here in Ireland—in the pint sized town of Calaway—nothing had changed. I’d only gotten in a few hours ago and already I knew what I was in for. The distance hadn’t stemmed the nightmares, but it had hurt me. Because knowing I wasn’t waking up in Aaron’s room anymore just made losing him seem even more real.

I hadn’t accepted it yet. That was what my parents said, what the doctor had said the one time I’d agreed to grief counseling. I hadn’t accepted Aaron was never coming back. I’m not sure I really understood that I’d lost him, so how could I grasp that I was never going to see him again?

Aaron Patrick Lucas was the strongest person I’d ever known. He meant everything to me and I didn’t have to wonder if I had meant the same to him. He was the other part of me, literally my second half. Without one of us, there couldn’t be the other. We both had always known that. Hell, why else had we done everything together? I was still here—half of who he was was still alive. So…he couldn’t be gone. It just…it wasn’t possible.

And sending me to Ireland had done nothing but remind me of that. I was a thousand plus miles from where Aaron had last been—from his bedroom, from our memories. I was thousands of miles from where he was buried. What was here for me in Ireland that was better than being near him? Reminders that he’d come last summer without me? Reminders that we’d planned to come here together this summer? That right now, I should be sharing this room with him rather than wallowing all alone?

That empty seat beside me on the plane had been his. So coming here, just the physical act of coming alone, had only reminded me of the best friend I’d lost.

And now, I couldn’t even escape the dreams.

I started when my cell phone vibrated on the bed beside me. Lifting my head, I checked the caller ID. Dad. I reached for it, then paused halfway there. Did I really want to hear this again? The “are you okay” speech, the “do you want to talk” mantra? Dad knew best about my nightmares. He was always awake when they’d hit me. Every night, at exactly 12:26 on the dot. And, I guess, even across the Atlantic Ocean, he still knew when they struck. Fatherly intuition, he’d say.

But I didn’t feel like listening. I didn’t feel like talking. Being home was one thing. I could bury myself in Aaron’s things, lock myself in his room, try to fall back asleep in his bed and it would help…just a little. Because he was still there—in his sheets, in his clothes, in his posters. Here in Calaway, despite the fact that he’d been here once upon a time, there was no lasting memory of him.

Knowing that killed me.

I picked up my phone and turned it off completely, then pushed myself out of bed, and paced the length of my temporary room. Even it bothered me. Its green and white walls, the cheery yellow comforter Aunt Brenna had bought because it was my favorite color. The paintings on the walls were mine, ones I’d done when I was younger and sent to her for holidays. There was one of bunnies I’d done when I was still using paint-by-numbers; another of a brown-haired Faery I’d dreamt up when I was about twelve.

I paused and stared at it miserably. Back when I believed all those stupid Irish Faery tales Ma used to tell Aaron and me, I’d painted it. I reached out and brushed my fingers gently over the canvas. It was smooth, but then again, smooth was the way I liked to paint. I liked to be able to brush my fingers over the canvas and feel as though I was falling right into it. Now though, seeing this Faery, thinking of Aaron’s last words…I didn’t want to fall in. I didn’t even want to stand on the edge.

I backed away.

I’ll never forget what Aaron said that night. About believing and all that. I’d thought he was just getting nostalgic what with college creeping up on him. But now…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Aaron hadn’t been surprised by the stranger. By the man in the sunglasses—the man who’d killed him. Aaron hadn’t even blinked when the guy had pulled the gun. And the way they’d spoken to one another…

God, how many times had I wished to be able to ask Aaron about that? If he’d known who killed him? Known him personally.

Ma and Dad thought I was just under too much stress; they didn’t understand what I’d meant when I’d brought it up. Then again, it wasn’t exactly what they wanted to hear either. But I couldn’t help thinking about it. Whatever Aaron and the stranger had been talking about before he’d pulled the trigger had been between the two of them. They’d both known and understood something, while I’d been two feet from them and couldn’t catch a hint.

I think that’s what made Aaron’s death all the more difficult to handle—all the harder to come to terms with. I knew, deep down, that there was more to his death than everyone else realized. And I also knew that no one but Aaron knew why.

I dragged my fingers through my hair, tempted to pull the blonde and purple out in my desperation. It was all becoming way too much. Losing Aaron, watching him die, knowing he’d been keeping something from me when he did…reliving his death every night in my sleep…

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t just sit here and watch it play over and over again. I wasn’t in Connecticut anymore; I wasn’t within walking distance of my parents, of my friends, my neighbors, Officer Murphy. There was no one left to come after me. There was no one left to stop me.

I didn’t take the time to consider. I grabbed my Ed Hardy’s from where I’d kicked them off before showering, and grabbed the yellow jacket I’d thrown on the end of my bed. It still smelled like the plane, but who cared? It wasn’t like anyone was going to notice but me.

I knew I couldn’t go out the front door. When Cousin Leila had first taken me on the house tour, she’d pointed out that the house was a creaky one. It was Irish, she’d teased, so of course it was ancient. Just pacing in my room, I’d heard the creaks. There was no way I’d be able to make it down the hall and out the front door without waking someone. But there was no chance in hell I was staying here any longer.

I went to the window and swung it open. It wasn’t a long drop; I’d taken worse falls skateboarding. Without a single glance to the door, I swung my legs over the side and jumped down. A cloud of dirt exploded beneath me as I hit the ground.

Then I took off running.

I had no idea where I was going. I’d only been in Ireland for five hours, and I’d only spent twenty minutes of that in the car, driving from Galway to Calaway. Calaway, home of three dirt roads, a small cobble stone village, no high school or middle school (or whatever they were called on this side of the Atlantic) and a solitary, gray manor right on the edge of the cliffs. A manor that had probably been the highlight of my ride, but Leila had claimed was the home of the jerks of the village.

“Just know that the folk there aren’t worth yer time, Leslie,” she’d said, glancing back at me with the smile from the airport still plastered on her face. It was a smile I’d quickly come to loathe: it was completely sincere but somehow, didn’t quite feel right..

But none of that mattered right now, my cousin or the castle. Or the fact that it was one o’clock in the morning and I had no idea where anything was. All I cared about was getting out, getting away. I just wanted to run until my feet bled.

I couldn’t see anything as I ran. I kept my eyes dead ahead and refused to look around. I was afraid that if I did, I’d see the stranger from the skate park. I was afraid I’d see him chasing me.

It was the most normal part of my reaction, according to the one-time psychologist. The fear that the killer was hunting me, that he was in the shadows stalking me. Back home, that fear had cut out most of my usual activities. No more midnight skating, no more hanging out past seven, no more standing on the back porch trying to capture both sunrise and sunset with paint. The doctor had said she wasn’t surprised I was afraid—that I feared for myself every time I stepped outside. The issue everyone had with me was that I wouldn’t do anything anymore, because I didn’t want to without Aaron.

God, I was crying again and I didn’t want to start just yet. Not until I had reached my destination, wherever the hell it was. I raced through the neighborhood and hit the town before I realized it, cutting straight through the cobbled alleys and out onto the dirt road on the other side. Instinctively, I went right. Why did it matter where I ended up? I demanded of the little voice that challenged me. I could run forever and I’d still be stuck in Ireland.

That little fact didn’t stop me from trying though.

The only time I turned my head was when I passed the manor. When I saw it out of the corner of my eye, backing away from me like an evasive shadow in the night. For a moment, I just stared at it. What I wouldn’t give for a place like that. To be able to cry and scream and shout and run and know that, no matter how loud I was or how far I went, no one would be around to come rescue me. No one would be around to hear me. Solitude like that would be a dream come true.

My attention was torn away from the manor as my foot caught a rock and sent me tumbling to the ground. My hands flew out to catch myself, and I winced as little pebbles caught the scabs left behind from the attack last month. I bit down on my lip and pushed off the ground, sitting back on my heels and trying to squeeze the pain from my hands. I bit down harder when they stung more.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. Could this night get any worse?

I froze when I heard whistling.

Swallowing hard, I opened my eyes very, very slowly.

I was alone. I looked around but there was no one there. No shadows, no animals…just the darkness.

I turned back. Up ahead, I could just make out the outline of trees and immediately, I relaxed. Whistling? It was just the wind. Blowing through the small, empty forest. I sighed and rubbed my forehead. I was going to go crazy before the trip was over.

I made my way to my feet, holding my left wrist because my palm was still stinging, and walked toward the woods. Bet they’re quiet, I told myself silently. And lonely. One o’clock in the morning, all the critters and people are tucked away in their beds. Lonely is exactly what I need.

The closer I got, the more I was able to see. On the edge of the woods, there was a shed of some sort—a station?—and as I drew nearer, I was able to make out a railway running parallel to the woods. I paused. A random set of railroad tracks at the edge of a thumb-size town?

Squinting through the darkness, and I could vaguely see the tracks extended through the field toward the neighboring town. But on the other end, where they would’ve gone to Galway, they just stopped. Not broken, not in progress… They just ended.

For a moment, I hesitated, my curiosity peaked. Who would start to build a railway and then just stop? Why build it only halfway? It wasn’t like half a railroad was any good to anyone. I stepped closer and bent down, touching the iron gently with my good hand. It was smooth. Had it ever actually been used?

And the station, I wondered, looking up and glancing at it. What, was it just for show? Maybe this was all part of some carnival or something. Or whoever was funding it suddenly ran out of cash. If it was smooth, it couldn’t be old either. So, it wasn’t a throwback to the first railways either. So what the hell was it doing here at all?

“Damnit, Aaron, where the hell did you bring me?” I muttered. “There’s a fine line between wonder and madness, bro.”

Raising my head, I looked up at the sky, half hoping to find him smirking down at me. Instead, I found myself gazing at the stars. I sat down on the tracks, leaning backward and propping my head on my arms. They were so bright. Like little white teardrops smiling down on the earth.

Little white teardrops…

I chuckled once and closed my eyes again, letting the tears trickle down my cheek. That was the name of a song Aaron had written a couple years back when the whole family had gone camping. The pair of us had found a cliff overlooking a lake and had spent hours there, just hanging out. Aaron had scrawled the lyrics into the dirt with a stick and I’d used my cell to take pictures of each verse so he could write them down later. The first thing he’d done when we got home was write the music for it. He’d finished it in less than two hours.

I sighed as the rest of the tears came. They were silent tonight, a welcome change. I could still think through them; still remember. It was random moments like that night on the cliff that I missed the most. The random moments and the stupid ones. How many times had we gotten into whipped cream fights in our kitchen for no apparent reason? How many times had it taken us to realize we should just wash the cars in our bathing suits to save our clothes?

There had never been a dull day when Aaron was around; we’d always found something to do or found ourselves in some mess to get out of. Back then, I’d always felt that was the way to live. Have as much fun as you can, while you can ’cause it won’t last forever. And Aaron’s death had proven that theory right.

But I just didn’t have it in me anymore. I didn’t have the energy. Physically and mentally, I couldn’t get myself that hyped anymore. I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in weeks; I only ever touched my skateboard for transportation now. Damn, I hadn’t seen any of our friends outside of school even once. I just didn’t have the same spirit I’d had before my big brother had died.

I couldn’t help but think that guy had killed the wrong Lucas.

I clutched my hair as I let the tears fall. Proof positive? I was in Ireland, already running away, crying my eyes out on an old abandoned railroad. Where Aaron would’ve made this escapade an adventure, I’d made it a psychologist’s field day.

“God damnit, Aaron!” I swore, opening my eyes and stomping my foot on the iron. “Why’d you have to leave me?!”

“Well, was it even his fault?”

I flew up off the tracks, my head whipping around at the sound of the voice. My heartbeat sped up as I stared into the woods. Suddenly, the whistling came flooding back to me.

I couldn’t see anyone in the darkness, the distance between myself and the forest was too great. But now, I was certain. There was someone in there. There’d been someone in there the whole time I’d lain defenseless on the tracks.

I swallowed hard, every moment of the skate park running through my mind. My heart shuddered.

“H-hello?”

“Hullo, love,” the voice came back.

I jumped about a mile, caught my heel again and fell backwards off the tracks.

“Oi, don’t hurt yourself, now. I’m not going to bite.”

British. He was British.

At once, I felt myself go into shock. The kind where your throat closes up, your body goes cold, but somehow, your palms still start to sweat. It was only later that I’d realize mine were also bleeding from falling again.

I stared, dead alert, but practically dead in movement. I could see a shape now, a shadow. Of a man perched on the lowest branch of the nearest tree. And because of the way the shadow fell, I could see the sunglasses on the top of his head.

“Oh, dear God, please don’t shoot.” I didn’t actually hear the words until the faint echo came back to me.

“Shoot?” There seemed to be real confusion in his voice. “Shoot what?”

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. I choked instead.

I heard him shift.

“Love, are you all right? You need a lift somewhere or something?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the simple question. “You… What?″

Abruptly, he chuckled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard you crying. Thought I’d be nosy and ask why. After all, I was here first.” He lifted his left hand, and I saw the small light of a cigarette in his hand. Strange, my first coherent thought was of Peter Pan holding Tinker Bell.

The stranger took a quick drag. “What’s bothering you?”

I couldn’t seem to form words at first. I was caught, lost in the strangeness of the situation. The madness of the man in the woods, the déjà vu there; and the wonder of the boy and the fairy, looking after the lost girl. Was I going crazy, or was it just that late?

I blinked a few times, licked my lips. Unknowingly, I relaxed where I sat, pulling my knees up and resting my elbows on them.

“Love?”

His voice broke through the haze in my brain. I suddenly realize the tears had stopped, the rivers drying on my cheeks. I wiped them away. He was too distant for me to see what he looked like, so I assumed I was too far for him to have noticed my tears, but nonetheless, I suddenly felt the urge to feign coherency.

“Who are you?” I asked, needing something more than the Peter Pan allusion.

He hesitated. “A friend.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, I’m certainly not after killing you, if that’s what you’re thinking. ’Don’t shoot.’” He took a final drag of the cigarette, then tossed it on the ground and folded his arms. “Blimey, that’s a first for me. Believe me, love, if I’d wanted to hurt you, I would’ve already. Are you certain you’re all right? I’m a bit worried for your sanity.”

I licked my lips and slowly nodded. Me too, I wanted to say. “Yeah. I-I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

I couldn’t help it. I scoffed. “So? What do you care?”

He chuckled. “Now, I didn’t say I cared. I just asked why you were lying. There’s a difference.”

I looked at him a moment, the final remnants of fear dissipating with every word. This wasn’t some whacked-out killer waiting for some tripped-up innocent; this was just a guy with nothing better to do than lurk around in the forest. “Sorry, I wasted your time,” I said shortly, pushing myself to my feet and finally noticing the wounds on my hands. I winced belatedly at the pain.

“Who was he?”

I stopped.

“The guy you were talking to. Friend, foe? Lover?”

My head snapped up. “He was my brother,” I snarled. “Now, shut up.”

He lifted his chin. Through the darkness, I could feel the surprise in that simple movement. “Your brother,” he said softly. “Well, I’m sorry, then.”

I glared at him in the darkness one last time. “Yeah. Me too.”