folklore: the novel

7. this is me trying

James' head is pounding. Like someone took a sledgehammer to his skull, he can feel every beat of his pulse at his temple.

Perhaps that's why he pulls his car off the road at the lookout. Or perhaps some part of him—the part of him that's mostly sober—recognizes where he's at. After two days of aimlessly driving, he's made it back to his hometown. It feels like he's been everywhere, that no part of Rhode Island has been left unturned, but he couldn't name a single town he passed through if his life depended on it.

The alcohol he'd snagged from his old man guaranteed that.

James is almost surprised he didn't hear from his father in his absence solely because of the missing bottles. Then again, the messily scrawled note on the fridge had clearly said GRABBING A DRINK IN TOWN – DON'T LOOK FOR ME so if he was already out bar-hopping before James got into his stash, he's hardly going to notice if a couple aren't there once he got back, sloshed out of his mind.

One thing James can say is that he finally understands the old man's addiction to the foul-tasting stuff—or, more rightly so, the lack of feelings that follows downing a few whole bottles. All through the first night and well into the second day, he'd chugged drink after drink with little care for... anything.

Really, he's lucky he didn't kill himself or someone else. Though... the former doesn't seem such a bad thing. Not really.

It's hardly as if his parents would miss him. Betty hates his guts now, as does Augustine. He made sure of that. And all of his so-called "friends" aren't good for anything more than talking shit. He isn't sure anyone would care if he didn't come back.

James reaches without looking for his passenger seat, hand shoving aside bottles and cans in search of just one—one—drink to take away his ability to think, but they're all empty. He's gone through it all already. Smacking them into the floorboard with a loud clatter that makes his head ache even worse, he slowly climbs out of his car.

The late afternoon breeze feels nice against his overheated skin and he lets it blow through his hair, tipping his head side to side to further enjoy it. His eye catches on his car and, idly, he realizes his wheels are starting to rust. Just another thing. There's always something.

But he doesn't care about that right now. The last thing he cares about is his once-shiny wheels turning a faded, rough orange.

He ambles a couple steps away from his car, the sound of the sight in front of him luring him in closer. Despite growing up here, he's never truly paused to appreciate the beauty around him. So much of his home is surrounded by a seemingly unending blue, so deep and dark and fathomless.

James peers out over the cliffside, the metal railing against his legs the only thing shielding him from plummeting right over the edge. It's... so steep. He can just barely make out the water crashing against the rocky face, but there's something about that violent churning and breaking of waves that calls to him.

If he could follow his fears, all the way down there, it could be... over. All of this.

"Give me a reason!" James suddenly screams. "Give me even one reason to stay! Tell me why I shouldn't—"

A noisy vehicle rounds the bend. James surely would've heard it sooner had his voice combined with the ocean not drowned out everything in the near-vicinity, but he has just enough time to pull back from the rail and stumble into the side of his car before it's in full-view of him. The Chevy's headlights flash across James' face, illuminating him for just a moment in the looming dusk, but it's a moment long enough to have the vehicle slowing.

When the hunk of metal barely surviving as a truck pauses beside his car, James doesn't even have to check who the owner is. His brief interaction with it left him all too familiar.