Midnight sun

1 | Noah

I searched aurora borealis green
I've never seen someone lit from within
Blurring out my periphery
Snow on the beach | Taylor Swift ft. Lana Del Rey

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It's been half an hour since I've been sitting on this uncomfortable plastic chair in an empty, gray office of the police station. Since I got detained last night I haven't had anything to drink or eat except for a cup of water that the detective gave me. Questioning didn't last long yesterday, evidence was so very strong against me that I am not sure why they had to bring me back to the interrogation room again. Forcing my eyelids shut, I let out a steady breath, emptying my lungs.

And then the door opens, but I don't bother looking up, I'm too fucking exhausted.

"Noah."

Torn from my negative thoughts I glance up and make eye contact with someone I haven't seen in six years.

"Uncle Paul, what are you doing here?"

His brows furrow when he takes in the nasty cut on my forehead and my bruised knuckles. He reaches out, but I dodge his touch and look straight ahead at the blank wall in front of me.

"What happened?"

"You probably already know since you're here," I bite, my voice rough from disuse.

"I want to hear it from you."

I don't know why he cares. Nobody ever cares at least not without wanting something out of it. I look at him then, see the bags under his eyes. Did he come straight here from Alaska? Does he even still live there?

"I went to this guy's place. Broke in and punched the living hell out of him." My bland, low tone doesn't reveal a hint of regret for doing it. I sound almost proud.

"Why?"

"Because he's a fucking murderer."

His eyes are brimming with questions that I'm not sure I can answer. My life doesn't even make sense to me anymore. At least while I had her, I could see the glimmer of hope out there. All those conversations long into the night, they made sense, those plans, simple dreams spoken like they are some big, unattainable things but from her mouth, sounded like a possibility. I was right there, with her, following her footsteps, basking in the positivity and optimism she so clearly radiated. Now I have nothing. Well, I have nightmares about burying corpses.

He sighs and pulls out some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. "You're coming with me."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's go home."

Home. That sounds nice. I wonder what that is? I laugh humorlessly. "You must be going crazy uncle Paul. I'm in fucking prison."

His eyes are soft as he peers down at me, yet his jaw is tense. "That cop that detained you last night? He's my buddy from the army. He called me up, as soon as he realized you're my nephew."

I look but I don't see clearly yet. What is he saying? "He's willing to do me a favor, he owes me for saving his life a long time ago."

He places the paper from his pocket in front of me and I glance at it. It's a plane ticket to Anchorage, Alaska.

"He knows something about the person you beat up. Says he's not a good man, and that he had that coming. The only reason he is not the one in prison is because he got people higher up under his thumb. There is some shady shit going on."

I listen and can't believe what I'm hearing. My brain aches, as if what that bastard did had left me with spikes on the inside of my skull. "Well why doesn't your buddy do something about it?!"

"He can't. Not at this very moment. But he's working on it." His low tone hints at the seriousness of his words. "What he's willing to do is let you go. But you gotta get away from this city. From the state even. You're gonna get yourself killed if you stay here, Noah."

The only person in my life who didn't give up on me is right in front of me and I am already thinking about ways to push him away again. My dad's older brother is a kind soul, all wise eyes and calm demeanor, ex military and a hard working man with calloused hands to prove it. He used to dress up as Santa and come to my parents house when I was little and always brought the best presents for me.

Neither of us speaks for a long time and the look in his eyes is one part disappointment and one part sadness. I don't want anybody feeling sorry for me, that is the main thing. Don't want family members coming to the rescue just so they could later go and talk about me behind my back, eyes shining with juicy gossip, secretly glad their life is not a hot mess. I haven't seen any family in years, but I'm sure that on weddings and funerals and similar occasions Noah Summerville is the topic they gleefully discuss and retell over and over again, happy to give all the gory details to the family members who are still in the dark. Did you hear about him? Patrick and Chloe's kid? That poor thing. That whole family, such a tragic story.

"Well, are you ready to head out then?" He stands up. I was always intimidated by his size as a kid. "Do you have more things to get before our flight this evening?"

"No. Nothing that matters. I lived in the streets." I stand up and look at him, daring him to say something to that. Surely he'll change his mind about me now that he knows what a scum I am. It seems that he is not bothered by me beating up a man with my bare hands. But is he really going to pick up a homeless person and take him to his house?

His frown and the creases between his eyebrows deepen. Teary eyes on this big burly man make me uncomfortable all of a sudden, and that brightness in his green eyes reminds me of my dad. I glance down quickly, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.

I have this strange feeling of hollowness. Like there is a predicament looming over me, a ghost of future self warning me that this might be my last chance. Take this life raft and save yourself.

"Right. Do I need to take you to a doctor to get checked out?" He points at my bloody forehead.

"I'm fine, it's just a scratch," I mumble. And I'm eight years old again.

"Tell you what, when we get there I'll take you to our family doctor, he's a good guy that I trust. Been working in our town for nearly twenty years. And I might have a job for you already."I guess that settles it–I'm going to Alaska.

I give him a single nod in acknowledgment. I'm so tired of talking, of thinking, of being tough. I know I should say something. Say thank you.

But why does thank you sound like confirmation that I'm a failure, a weakling who can't survive on his own?

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