Lighthouse Nights

23

orange lines split the darkness as red dots spiraled a vortex like blood drawn to a shower drain. the shapes trembled to the vulgar beat as they corkscrewed and vanished into the collapsing galaxy of color. below the projected visualizer, seven garbage bags spewed malignant gas through identical red bows, feeding the black hole from their slouching lineup. jules felt weightless, unwinding, as if the colors were dragging her soul from the couch to an alternate reality.

the music wasn't music, but SCREAMO; sickening chords and half-melodies that underscored the hateful rant of a spastic singer. the song spurred the visualizer's sinister personality and throbbed through the heart and soul of jules (back in the day, she liked this band.)

the bedroom was lit only by the projector's psychedelic beam and the sporadic flash of purple lightning.

gabe sat at the opposite end of the couch, head on the armrest and trademark journal resting on bent knees, writing his suicide note in the company of three half-empty liquor bottles. he chewed another blunt as he penned his final goodbye; the stump of cigar seemed all-too natural between his knuckles.

two hours ago his parents left for an irresponsible night at the opera, leaving their child to execute his master plan in peace. gabe made jules wait in the van while he said his goodbyes, but she spied from tinted windows as he hugged his mother and father beneath the drizzle. to their credit, they DID seem hesitant to leave, but the tickets were a gift from their son and they couldn't turn down the kind gesture.

after they left, gabe cried. jules didn't see it, but the evidence was pink and inflamed across his face when he finally retrieved her from the car.

now she sat on the couch with her ankles squeezing the backpack. rachel's cellphone was easily accessible in the side pocket with 911 waiting on speed dial. as gabe sank deeper into his letter, jules toyed with the black earring in the folds of her blue-jean pocket and twitched when cracks of thunder bested the music.

gabe's note was signed and creased and placed atop the middle bag. he returned to the couch, sat beside her and she coughed at the taste of bad cologne. he opened a manilla folder and removed a crusted handful of sketches resurrected from a watery grave. "sarah let me draw her," he said. "she was... divine that night." he flipped through the pages with ritualistic ease, rubbing his thumb occasionally across the girl's naked form.

"you never stop thinking about her..." jules said.

"no."

"do you ever think about me?"

"this isn't about you."

"i'm real, gabe. i'm alive."

he stood up and propped a single drawing against each black bag. "you're random," he began. "you're POINTLESS. i don't know where you came from or how you got here, but you're a parasite, jules. actually, that's the perfect word for it; i keep you around like a dog carries a flea. you might itch a little, but ultimately, who the fuck cares." he emphasized the last four words by plopping beside her on the sofa.

"i love you," she said.

"if you cry, i'm kicking you out."

*  *  *

jules is gonna watch him die!

the details of the gabe-jules dynamic were beyond trevor's imagination, but—for whatever reason—julesie had accompanied the boy into his bedroom on the night of his second suicide attempt.

trevor's plan would be a mind-blowing success if his girlfriend witnessed the boy's bloody demise. the horrifying experience would rekindle memories from her past and in the end, she would return to HIM for protection.