The world without Izaiah

6

One week before the accident:

Christo was drunk most nights those days. He drank and drank until he forgot he was depressed. He drank until he forgot that his dad was even dead.

It was starting to scare Izaiah. He didn't like seeing him passed out on the floor. He didn't enjoy watching him slowly kill himself.

He blamed himself, even though a sober Christo often reassured him that it was not his fault. Sober Christo promised to quit drinking, but drunk Christo just couldn't leave.

On one particular day, he drank so much that Izaiah had to call an ambulance for fear that he had alcohol poisoning. His blood alcohol levels were above and beyond anywhere they should have been. He should have been dead.

Izaiah cried that night. He feared Christo would need to go to a rehab facility, but he knew that he wouldn't accept help.

It was crazy that Izaiah even agreed to get into the car the evening of the accident. Everyone wondered why he did it. But the truth is, he was just as intoxicated as his husband.

Izaiah usually didn't drink, but there was social pressure that night. All the guys were drinking. They kept pushing drinks at him.

Now, they all regret it deeply. The members of the wailers, Christo's band, all blame themselves as much as Christo does. One thing was for sure. They had all agreed to get help.

Something had changed within them. Being at Izaiah's funeral without Christo there had felt wrong. It was enough to send the bandmates over the edge. It was now or never to make a change they all needed to make.

Christo knew he missed the funeral. It was eating at him from the inside out and turning him into an ugly, mutilated monster.

He wanted to be there more than anything. He wanted to be there to see his husband's casket, to be with him one last time, to say goodbye. Yet he was stuck behind bars.

Maybe Izaiah wouldn't even want him there, especially not after he murdered him.

He wondered what happened to the semi-driver; he was sure he would appear in court. Court was the in the next hour.

Once his time arrived, they brought him to the courtroom in his orange jumpsuit, with his hands cuffed behind his back.

The court was shorter than expected. He had an attorney, but she didn't want to be there. Especially not defending him, of all people, the monster.

The jury came to a unanimous vote. GUILTY. Then, it was time for the judge to decide how to sentence him.

And when he did, everyone in the room looked satisfied: 20 years to life, no chance at parole. Christo couldn't make eye contact with anyone. He couldn't keep his eyes off the floor. If people saw his face, he would lose control; he would scream.

He thought about asking for counseling as Arnoldo had suggested, but what did the older man know? Something told him he was just as broken himself.

Maybe Arnoldo's brokenness was what made him go insane. Maybe Christo would suffer that same fate. He didn't want to become the older man in prison who claimed to speak with God. Never in a million years did he want that.

When he returned to his cell, Arnoldo sat on his bed, dozing off.  He awoke the moment they jangled the keys in the lock.

"Ah, welcome home!"

The home was a cruel antonym for prison. This cell was not his home. This was his hell. Izaiah was his home, and now his house was demolished by his selfish decision to drive that day.

The older man stared forward at him as if reading his thoughts. "You are depressed. You missed his funeral, your trial did not go well, and now you feel like dying again."

"You know, I'd think you were psychic if I didn't know better, but I am realistic. Someone is telling you my private information, and I'm not a fan of that." Christo gritted his teeth and huffed.

The older man was greeted by a guard who, once again, thank you, removed him from his cell—this time for physical therapy.

Christo turned to the guard as he got locked up. "So, what's his deal? Is he insane or something?"

The guard laughed, "Who? Shotgun? It's not wild per se. He has a knack for guessing oddly specific information about people. Some people say he's psychic. I say he has a gift."

"A gift?" he laughed and put one hand on the bar. "Don't tell me you believe in all his bull, too?"

The guard shrugged his shoulders. "You'll see. After a while... you'll see."

Everyone in this place was crazy. He had to watch his back. As dinner came in, he glared at it. Another meatloaf of some kind, with corn this time. It was about time they gave him a job to do. Maybe he could convince them to let him work in the cafeteria. He desperately needed to do something. Either that or at least go to the library.

He wondered what Arnoldo was reading. He made a note to ask him once he got back from therapy.

Later that day, once Arnoldo had returned, he asked. Arnoldo grabbed his book from under his pillow. "Right now, I'm reading The Great Christmas Pine, a lovely Christian Christmas novel in 1952."

"You like that kind of stuff. I've always heard it was all boring and redundant."

The Oldman opened his book. "Young man. You would not think that if you read the right book. This one here, I know you would love it if you just gave it a chance."

"Right."

The older man giggled like a child. "You say that a lot, you know. You always seem so sure of yourself. You make him laugh, you know."

Great, he thought God was laughing at him. Who even said that kind of thing? Arnoldo, that's who.

"A real shame you don't believe yet. I have so much to share with you, young man."

Arnoldo was so full of himself that it made Christo mad. He thought he was somehow communicating with god.

What an old, stupid fool. He almost felt bad for him.