Jim's haunted past

Chapter 9: Remembering the day

A bitter winter wind whipped through the deserted graveyard as Jim made his solitary trek between the rows of weathered headstones. The icy air seared his lungs, or perhaps it was the pain of old memories rising to the surface.

At last he reached the modest marker engraved with Wayne's name, dates frozen in tragic adolescence. Kneeling, Jim traced his brother's inscription, summoning the happier days of Wayne's fleeting life rather than its horrific end.

He remembered sun-filled afternoons lazing by the quarry, Wayne's laughter bright as he leapt recklessly into the cobalt water. Nights camping in the backyard, roasting marshmallows on scavenged sticks, faces glowing amber in the firelight as they whispered dreams of the future.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging tears. It wasn't fair. Wayne should have had a chance to fulfill those vibrant dreams, to really live. Instead, his light had been ruthlessly extinguished at fifteen by the very monsters who now haunted Jim's own footsteps like shadows.

Rising on stiff legs, Jim gazed down at the final resting place of the baby brother he couldn't protect. "I'm sorry," he choked out.

The words felt woefully insufficient for the magnitude of his failure. Wayne had needed him that horrific night in the train tunnel, and Jim had let him down. Not a day went by that guilt didn't gnaw at his soul.

A flurry of snow began drifting over the headstone, nature gently blanketing the buried pain. Jim traced the engraved name one last time. He had been given a second chance to defeat Wayne's killers when they inexplicably rose from the grave themselves.

Jim didn't know if their resurrection was meant to be atonement or further torture. But he refused to fail his brother again. The greasers would be stopped, no matter the cost.

Drawing his coat tighter against the biting wind, Jim turned from the grave with renewed resolve. He would lay Wayne's spirit to rest the only way he could - by destroying the evil that cut his life short.

As he navigated between the tombstones, the snow steadily erased Jim's footprints. But the trail in his heart remained clear. He strode forward with the certainty of a man who has stared remorse in the face and chosen to keep fighting. For Wayne. Jim stood before Wayne's grave, head bowed against the biting winter wind. The minimal marker bearing his brother's truncated life dates was nearly obscured beneath drifting snow. Jim's throat tightened as he traced the inscription one last time.

Turning to leave, he collided with a solid form suddenly blocking his path. Jim staggered back to see none other than Carl Mueller, a former classmate of his and Wayne's. Though Carl's red wind-chapped face had aged, Jim recognized him instantly.

"Carl? What are you doing here?" Jim asked warily. His skin prickled at this specter from the past's dark days appearing so unexpectedly.

Carl shuffled his feet, avoiding Jim's gaze. "Hey Jimmy. I uh, heard you were back in town. Wanted to pay my respects."

Jim noted Carl's flask poorly concealed against his palm. The pungent scent of alcohol surrounded him like an aura. Yet his eyes appeared startlingly lucid.

"I'm sure Wayne appreciates it," Jim said tightly, moving to step past Carl's bulky frame.

Carl blocked his path again. His eyes flashed with something urgent and raw in the gray light. "Jimmy, wait. There's something I gotta tell you. About what happened to Wayne, all those years ago..."

Jim stilled, breath fogging the icy air. "Go on," he said quietly. "I'm listening."

Carl fidgeted, clearly wrestling inwardly before the words began spilling out. "It was me that told the greasers where to find your brother that day. I...I fed them details about Wayne's walk home. Made him an easy target."