The Cove

Chapter 3: Cameron

It's Thursday evening. D finished work, but he's gone away with his girlfriend, Josephine—Jo—so here I am, alone in the house with a scrape on the rough skin of my hand, given to me by a jagged splinter I got from the handle of an old shovel. It's quiet and dark, and the scrape has scabbed. I've closed all the blinds, locked all the doors and windows, and shut myself away like an animal in a box. The TV's been running, but it holds no interest for me. I'm empty, and it's like I'm looking through eyeholes cut into a crusted shell. I feel like a shadow in the corner, clinging to things to try and stay sane. Shit, I want to see her. I want to feel the way my arms fit around her waist, the softness of her skin, the brush of her lips. It's like a drug I'm craving but I can't have. It's like a high I'm feeling, yet I'm even further down in the dumps. I think about my car sitting on the curb, picturing myself sliding the key into the ignition. I hear the sputter as it comes to life. It would be so easy to go see her just for a few minutes, a few seconds. But I can't. I won't.

Annoyed, I stand, flip off the TV, and grab my gray coat. I slip it over my shoulders as I take my set of house keys from a hook near the door, put the hood halfway on my head, and walk out of the house. The air is crisp for summer. The sun beats down like a heat lamp on full blast, and pretty soon, I feel the heat, but I don't take my jacket off. It's only the wind that blows the hotness away, giving me a slight hint of relief. I finally let my hood down as I start walking down the road, past tiny houses and trailers. It feels nice—the wind combing through my hair with its soothing fingers. I feel my nerves settling down as I walk, but I can never let down my guard lest someone take advantage of it. Every time I go out, every time I take a step, I watch out, guard my back. It's a cruel, tough way of life, but it's all I've got, all I've ever known, and besides, I'm still alive. People don't mess with me because they know I can take out Fergus Hines. I did once before. That's part of why he hates me. Around here, it's only the strongest, fiercest who survive. Show your vulnerable side, and you're simply showing the others they can beat you up and leave you lying on the streets. Show the forbidding dangerous side, shoot killing glares, pretend you always carry a switchblade in your back pocket—even encourage rumors about how good you are with it—and they'll usually leave you alone. Of course, everyone has to prove themselves...and I did.

My thoughts go down a different road. I remember when I did just that to Fergus's second-hand man. The guy never knew what hit him until he was on the ground with a broken nose and a banged eye that was turning black and blue as the blood gathered beneath his greasy skin. Fergus had set him on me, a test I suppose. Afterward, he himself tried to take me...right after he said I could go on with my life with no problems.

I remember the rush, strong and flowing, pushing me on, screaming at me to hurt anything I could touch. My blood was still turning from the previous fight—the punches, the yells from the guys standing around us—and the competition was just beginning to roll through me. I swung, but Fergus blocked. Then, my fist clocked him as he was straightening, fast and whipping, capturing him off guard and snapping his head to the side. It lasted for only five minutes. Then, I walked away as Fergus picked his battered body off the ground. I won. I always win. Maybe it's because I'm competitive. Maybe it's because it's in my blood. My mother always said so, and she was never wrong. She was a tiger, fierce and lovely.

A pang of grief shoots through me. She was tough, but she was the best I've ever had, all I've ever had. She taught Andrew and me things, said she loved us on special occasions, and hugged us every few days. She never read us bedtime stories or told fairytales.

"Fairytales aren't real. They're for the weak and sappy," she'd said to me whenever I asked about them after hearing stories in kindergarten. "Cameron, you're not going to be a stupid pansy. You have to be strong and hard. You understand me, kid? You have to be strong for you and your brother. Poor boy. He's turning out to be a softie, and that's not good. The world's cruel, Cameron. Hell, if you show your soft hide, it'll tear your heart out while you're still breathing. It'll break every one of your bones, and suck your life out without thinking twice. Don't let it happen, baby. Be strong and resilient. If you do happen to get beat down, be resurgent. Rise again. You and Andrew have to...or you don't make it." Those were Mom's pep talks. Hardcore and down to business—she wasn't one for beating around the bush— but, as I've learned, true.