Charlotte Tanner
Fiction Editor
The hills drew a deep grey in the house. New with fresh white tile laid in the room in which we cook. I yell for my son to meet me in the truck, a blue thing that screams when you hit the breaks. My keys, cold, are in my hand. I press the lock to get in the truck. I wait. I wait. I wait. Bean and Teague took the first bus. Keir is late. I wait. I wait. I wait. My wife is gone, and a song pops in my brain, “No News.”
We bought the house at the right time, a fresh start. For all of us. A new school for the kids. A new house for the wife. Peace. Keir will be late. I wait. I wait. I wait. I leave the truck, the door swings wide and stays there. No signs of life leave the house, and when I step on that fresh white tile the house I thought would be a home turns dark in my mind, like sludge, like foam. My feet, they drag, for red pools by my son’s head. He hit his head. Yes, hit his head. I call. I talk. They say they will be there in ten. I hold his head, the blood, it leaves. I put it back. It will not go back.
They are here, they ask me to take a step back. I will not let go of my boy. My son. My child. My blood. His blood, it will not stop. They pull me off and out of the home—I mean house. My hands, they are red, my heart, it is black. I heave and a man yells to get me out. Kier, he will be late for school. The hills they close in, a girl, she takes the red from me. No, I think. That is all I have left of his life. The man spurts words. Safe… gun… no note… Tears leak. I heave. I call my wife. The school. I wait. I wait. I wait.