Elle Jones

Chapter 10: It's Just Tire Tracks

After giving me a pat on the back, Austin insisted that we should hand over Elle Jones' ashes to the police when his shift is done.

At around 12:30, Austin would wait for me near the parking lot, drive to the station, tell the cops everything they needed to know, and hand the jar over.

As soon as his plan is set to motion, Austin smiled, thinking that it was as simple as taking a candy from a baby. I wanted to smile back, but deep down, I thought his plan was complete BS.

If we did give the jar to the cops, Joseph might find out what I had done and ground me for the rest of my life. Besides, he wouldn't let me see Austin without imagining a gun in his hand.

But still, I felt bad stealing Elle Jones' ashes and I didn't want Warren losing his shit because of my stubbornness. So, I gave Austin a fake smile, hugged him goodbye, and watched him leave my bedroom.

Seconds after his reluctant departure, I rummage my desk drawer for a small cigarette and a lighter, then had the urge to smoke my feelings away.

Between my two index fingers, carried a white stick with a gruesome black scar on the end. My mouth gnawed at the orange tip of the cigarette, pondering over Elle's ceramic brown jar.

It stood idly on my white nightstand, allowing small dust particles growing on the cold surface. From the corner of the stand, is a tall, dark blue lamp producing a dim, yet blinding light that shined so brightly, that I was afraid the lightbulb would explode.

The glistening, white spot appears on the surface like a ketchup stain sitting on a table; it didn't budge or move a muscle; in fact, the light rested on the glass container's lid-inches away from Elle Jones' name etched across the jar.

The minute the fat smoke cloud escaped from my cracked lips, I glanced at my bedroom window, where the night casts an eerie dark shadow throughout New York.

Overwhelming sweeps of dark ink stretched over cars, buildings, and busy people.

Along with rolling dark clouds came raucous sounds of drunken laughter, excessive crying, obnoxious honking, and hateful words trading amongst one another like a text message blinking on a phone's screen.

With a heavy sigh, I thought to myself:

Oh, New York, what have you done?

You make us gawk at your escalating skyscrapers, swoon over your finest cuisines, and yell at your losing interest in crime.

At night, whenever I see New York's revealing its true colors, I can picture a disease more fatal than Ebola; it would come without warning, sending eerie chills down your fragile spine.

An epidemic so powerful that you find ghastly color overwhelming your skin tone.

It is called a shadow.

When I was eight-years-old, I was so afraid of the dark that I would ask Joseph seven times if I could sleep in the family bedroom, where he and Isadora slept.

It was ten times bigger than my ordinary room; the family room has a flat screen television, a nice air conditioner, and a bed big enough to satisfy the Queen of England.

I would beg Joseph constantly to invite me inside, but unfortunately, he would look down at me then said in a strict tone: "Jack, I don't have the time to be wiping your tears. So man the fuck up and go to your own bedroom."

Enraged, Isadora would yell at Joseph for hours, saying that he shouldn't swear in front of a child. Meanwhile, Jacob-who had just turned fourteen at the time-offered to sleep in my bed.