At My Worst | ongoing

00 | candlelight

KIERAN

———

ON DAYS LIKE THIS, it's hard not to feel everything all at once. Like, for example, I'm far too aware of my Rottweiler, Bubba, dropping his heavy head across my feet with a quiet whine. I flex my toes in my shoes, hoping to shake off the overwhelming numbness that's starting to spread.

Of course, it doesn't work.

It's just another added unpleasant sensation the humid August air isn't making any better. Just add that to the eight shots of vodka I can hardly remember before I blacked out last night, my probably cracked ribs, and the dull ache that's slowly spreading through my chest with each passing second.

I've been having these sorts of days more and more often, especially as we get closer to the beginning of the school year. With that comes hockey, more memories I would rather drown out, and the anniversary. It's only the first one so far. It seems crazy that it hasn't even been that long. Almost nine miserable and tiring months without him.

It was a good idea in theory—having a vigil. The appeal of it, however, lessened after the first hour when the sun began to set. Bugs flitter about the flickering candles surrounding us, and what was meant to be the coolest night this week is just as stuffy and hot as the rest. It doesn't help that I've spent the past four hours meeting different versions of my brother that I had no idea existed, only to be hit with the fact that he's still gone. It's a torture I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

Our mother went all out, too, with what little money she had left over from having Camden's body torched rather than burying him beside our dad like he would've wanted. She probably wouldn't have even had a funeral for him if the school didn't pay for it. She plays the grieving mother well enough that I haven't felt up to calling her a bitch to her face. Even if that's all I want to do, especially now as she sobs in the arms of her flavor of the month in a new Armani dress she shouldn't even be able to afford.

I'm still trying to figure out why she's here in the first place. There has to be a catch. When we were kids, you couldn't get her to show up to anything. Not parent-teacher conferences, not Peewee tryouts, not a single game, nothing. Now she's fucking everywhere as long as there's a camera and a way to put a couple dollars in her pockets. According to our old neighbors, somebody started a fundraiser to help pay off all the private loans Camden took out to put himself through school, and she used the money to buy her boyfriend a new car.

Fucking bitch.

Blue Montgomery seems just as over it as I am. I can't pinpoint the exact moment he checked out, but I'm sure it was around the time my older brother's first high school girlfriend stepped up to the podium. Within a minute of her speech, he pulled his hood up over his head and shut his eyes. If it weren't for the The Smiths lyrics quietly streaming from beneath his breath every few seconds, I would've thought he had fallen asleep. He probably wouldn't be here in the first place if Coach Williams hadn't made it mandatory for the entire team to 'be there for me'.

If I had known what the vigil would actually entail—i.e. a bunch of his exes wishing they tried harder to be Mrs. Camden Faust—I would've told them not to bother showing up. Take whatever punishment Coach came up with in stride if it meant not sitting through this bullshit.

Jennie Evans, the last girl he ever hooked up with, has been up there for the longest so far—over an hour and a half—telling his friends, family, and three news vans just how much she loved him and he loved her. I almost want to scoff, but my mother's only two rows ahead of me and wouldn't hesitate to chuck her heel back at my head—façade be damned. Fact is, though, they dated for two months because 'she gives good head'. Those were his exact words to me when he introduced her at the Halloween party we had at the hockey house.