the hard truth about
Sunshine
SAWYER BENNETT
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright (c) 2017 by Sawyer Bennett EPUB Edition
Published by Big Dog Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
ISBN: 978-1-940883-73-1
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Dedication
To that wounded marine with no leg and only half a hand I met in the Orlando airport... your pain made an impression on me. Semper Fi.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Connect with Sawyer
About the Author
Chapter 1
Sometimes I marvel at the stupid shit I do. When I was seven, I tried to see how many dandelions I could put up my sister's nose. She was three at the time, and as it turns out, four was the magic number. It took a lot of concentration on my part, especially because she wasn't quite so sure she wanted to participate. But it was only two in each nostril, so I didn't think it was a big deal.
But that wasn't the truly stupid thing I did on that occasion. When she started getting upset that her nose was clogged full of flowers, I tried to pull them out, but dandelions are a lot easier to stuff into closed quarters than to pull them out with clumsy little boy fingers. Apparently, it was a brilliant stupid idea to get my mama's crochet needle to pull them out.
While, technically, I didn't yank her brains out with the hooked end, I wasn't as delicate as I guess I should have been, and there may have been some blood involved. That earned me an ass whippin' from my pa--using his belt, of course--that made it impossible for me to sit down for three full days.
From my ma, I only got the guilt trip. "Christopher James Barlow... I'm so disappointed in you. You could have pulled her brains out."
No, Ma... pretty sure I couldn't have done that.
Then there was the time in high school when some buddies and I thought it would be fun to break into the principal's office at night and super glue every movable object in there to something else. Turns out, not so fun when you get caught.
Or when I was dating Cici Carlan and thought I could also date Kim Flick at the same time, and neither would be the wiser.
Turns out that girls talk.
A lot.
Stupid, stupid shit I get myself into.
Of course, those were just things that were pettily foolish. I've committed far worse idiocies over my life that resulted in bad consequences death and destruction for all involved. Sounds dramatic, but it's completely true.
But today... at twenty-six years of age... I marvel over my latest act of foolishness as I head west on I-40. I'm driving my big black Suburban filled with a misfit crew of people I can barely stand but have committed to spending the next several days with them on the open road.
"Christopher, can you turn the A/C down a bit?" a timid voice asks from the backseat directly behind me. My eyes cut to my rearview mirror, and I look at Dead Kid's reflection. His hand pulls nervously at the collar of his t-shirt and I can see a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, extending upward to the bald top of his head and across his acne-infested cheeks.
"You going to be sick?" I ask suspiciously as I turn the temperature down before looking back in the mirror to try to determine if that's a tinge of green to his skin.
"No," he assures me, tugging at his collar. "Just hot."
"Tell me if you're going to be sick," I insist, my foot easing off the gas and my eyes going to the passenger-side mirror to see if I can start making my way over to the shoulder of the interstate in case he needs to puke.
He shakes his head and looks at me through the rearview mirror, giving me a reassuring smile that fully reaches his brown eyes, which, admittedly, haven't seemed as dull as they had for the past few weeks. "Not going to be sick."
I let my gaze drift back to the road, accepting his word.
Not going to be sick, but you're definitely going to die. That's a fact, kid.
"Here... barf in this if you have to," Goth Chick says from the backseat, and my eyes cut back to the mirror. She hands him a McDonald's bag that had previously held the sausage biscuits we ate for breakfast.
"I'm not going to puke," he reiterates in a firm voice, but I notice he takes the bag.
"You better not," Goth Chick warns, her teeth flashing in a grimace made whiter by the black lipstick she's wearing.
"He said he's not sick so leave him alone," a softly lilting voice says from beside me in the front passenger seat.
I have to force myself not to turn my head to look at her. Even a brief glance at Jillian Martel and her droopy blue eyes wouldn't be safe to me, and she's probably the real reason why I think I've made a stupid mistake in taking this trip.
She claims to be suffering from depression because of her condition, but fuck if you'd ever get that from her. Her disposition is as sunny and bright as her golden hair, which I know will be shimmering from the late morning sun that pours in through my glass sunroof overhead if I were to look at her. I'd nicknamed her Sexy Eyes on the day we met and that still holds true today, so it's best I don't look at her.
I don't need the reminder that this girl is the epitome of everything that I am not.
I met this weird-as-hell crew--Sexy Eyes, Goth Chick, and Dead Kid--in a group therapy session where our pit-bull of a leader, Mags Bundy, is desperately trying to facilitate a friendship among us as we work through our issues.
I have little in common with the lot, but there is a thin thread of commonality that connects me to Dead Kid. He's dying--and I want to die on some occasions--so I guess I'm a bit envious of him. I also have some resonance with Goth Chick. She's bitter, angry at the world, and likes to smoke pot. I'm also bitter, angry at the world, and like to smoke pot.
But I can't find anything in common with Sexy Eyes.
There's an aura of something odd that comes off her. It's her words, her tone of voice. It's the way her eyes crinkle slightly when she smiles, which is the most movement I ever really see from them given her medical condition. The way she looks at you directly and the way her shoulders are always loose and rel
axed, displaying an overt confidence in herself and surroundings. Out of all of us, she has a firm acceptance of her fate. Setting her even further apart from this group, she doesn't seem upset about it at all.
In fact, I can't figure out for the life of me why she's even in our support group because Jillian Martel is just in a league all by herself, regardless of her disease.
She actually radiates light.
Happiness.
Joy.
Invincibility regardless of her situation.
She seems filled with so much goddamn delight over life as she knows it that it sort of makes me hate her for it.
But the reason I made a stupid decision and came on this trip is that I'm as equally intrigued by Jillian Martel as I am repelled by her. My intrigue won out, and I agreed to this ludicrous idea of a group journey so I could be near her.
I agreed because I need to know how she does it.
How she can have such a grim future and still smile as if all is right with her world.
Chapter 2
I peruse the candy selection offered in this convenience store while my SUV is gassing up. I'm looking for my favorites, because junk food is always essential on a road trip. I'll admit... it dredges up some bitter memories because the only road trips I ever really took were with Maria, but I'm not going to let my love of sour gummy worms, corn nuts and white cheddar popcorn be marred by the memory of what we were to each other but are no longer.
"Corn nuts?" I hear Jillian say from behind me as I grab a bag.
"Essential road trip food," I tell her without looking her way. The cheery disposition she wears on her face sometimes hurts my soul eyes, like I'm looking directly at the sun.
"Any good?"
"Yup."
I grab the sour gummy worms and turn my back on Jillian, heading over to the chips aisle in search of popcorn. Her footsteps pad behind me and my shoulders stiffen with unease that she might continue the conversation.
It's painful to me... to make small talk. I'm the world's worst conversationalist and while I know Mags proclaimed this trip was truly for Dead Kid's sake, she was also hoping it would get some of us to open up.
Namely Goth Chick and me.
I've known this group of people for a total of six weeks, since our first weekly group session. I doubt Goth Chick and I have said more than a handful of words to each other or to the group on any given day, and that's fine by me. I got nothing really to say.
My eyes rise up and over the aisle of chips to see Goth Chick herself swiping a pack of gum from an endcap and shoving it into her bra. She doesn't even bother to look around to make sure the cashier isn't watching her, and that's because she truly doesn't give a shit if she gets caught.
She does lift her face to look at me, and we share loathsome stares with each other. Even from ten feet away, I can see her green-brown irises are glazed. If I were to stand next to her, I'd smell a hint of pot, because as soon as we pulled into the gas station, she headed around the back to smoke. I totally would have killed for a hit or two, but I'll be damned if I was going to ask her. Besides, I'd promised Mags I'd be sober if I was driving. I might be a shit most of the time, but I am a man of my word.
Goth Chick's real name is Barb, but her appearance earned her my nickname. Black hair cut in a short, cropped style a bit longer on the top and buzzed on the sides and back. Two rings pierced through her eyebrow, three rings through the middle of her bottom lip, and heavy, hollow ear gauges that a nickel would probably fit through. Tattoos cover both of her arms and clunky, metal rings adorn each finger painted with black polish. Her dark persona is always capped off by dark eyeliner and black lipstick, which makes her pale skin look even whiter. Today, she has on ripped fishnet stockings, combat boots, a black mini skirt, and a tight black t-shirt with the words "Fuck Democracy" across her small chest. No clue what that means, but I suspect she doesn't either. Probably just wearing it for the shock value of dropping a public "F" bomb.
"That was ballsy," Jillian says under her breath, almost reverently, and I realize she's come to stand beside me in the chip aisle. And I can't fucking help myself... I turn to look down at her--since I top her by a good foot--and watch her observing Goth Chick with an amused smile.
"That's second-hand nature to her," I tell her dryly. Goth Chick's a common criminal like me.
"Maybe," Jillian whispers, never turning to look at me but keeping her gaze on the little thief. "But she took that for Connor. He's addicted to gum."
My eyebrows rise... shocked over her proclamation. How the fuck would Goth Chick even know that? As far as I know, they've never even really conversed as Goth Chick doesn't talk much in group unless it's to make caustic comments about someone else's pain. Maybe Dead Kid mentioned it, and while I've been ignoring much of what goes on in group, perhaps Goth Chick listens.
Still, I have to ask. "How does she know that Dead Kid's addicted gum?"
Jillian turns her head to me slowly. I know enough about her condition from observing her the past few weeks that it is about as fast as she can swivel her head because of muscle weakness. But from the fire in her eyes, I know she would have snapped her attention my way if she could.
"Don't call him that," she snarls at me, and she sounds like an aggrieved tiger.
Well, actually a kitten. Jillian Martel doesn't have it in her to be anything more than that. She's too fucking nice even in her anger.
I should be abashed that what I said was offensive. I know I should feel some measure of guilt.
I feel neither, so I merely shrug, "Why not? He's going to die."
"We're all going to die," she practically hisses at me.
"Yeah," I taunt, leaning my head down toward her so she can hear me clearly. "But he's the most imminent. Would it help if I clarify it and refer to him as Imminent Dead Kid?"
My crudity causes Jillian to gasp.
Her gasp causes me to smirk.
I don't regret saying that, because I stopped caring what people thought about me a long time ago. I sure as hell don't care what Jillian thinks.
I brace and wait for the backlash, and I brace hard. While Jillian Martel may not have a vicious tongue from what I've come to learn about her, the way in which she castigates is pretty brutal. It's much more sinister than any amount of angry ranting I could ever do. The girl with the mushy heart and Pollyanna attitude will hit me hard in a much different way.
Jillian's eyes, which already have that perpetually softened look due to her disease, round just a tad further and her lips curl slightly in an empathetic sort of smile. She steps into me, laying her hand on my forearm without any regard to the shredded and scarred skin that lays thinly over bone. "I get it."
"Get what?" I grit out, glancing down briefly at where her tanned hand lays against the disfigured remnants of my arm.
"Why you feel the need to be so mean."
"You think I'm mean?" I ask, flashing my teeth at her in a mocking sneer. I'm so much more than mean.
"I think you're full of self-pity and anger, and that makes you feel justified to act like a jerk. I think the only small measure of relief you get from your pain is by making others feel bad or uncomfortable. I think you've all but given up on the potential for good to happen in your life so you're content to be mired in your anger. But please, Christopher, you can level that meanness at me if you want--or Barb, she's tough and can take it. But lay off Connor, okay? His days are numbered, and he doesn't need you throwing that in his face."
She says all of that softly... kindly, without an ounce of derision in her voice.
Rage courses through me over her words--that she would even think to preach to me about how I should conduct my life. And to do it with empathy pity directed at me. It's almost too much to bear, accepting that kind smile she has leveled at me right now.
But even as I open my mouth to lay into her--to let this bitch know she hasn't even begun to see the type of malice I hold within me--I find myself noticing a distinctly uneasy feeling st
arting to take root in the center of my chest. A dull ache. Perhaps a twinge of regret. Worst yet... an odd fascination over the fact she said there's the potential for good in my life.
That better not be fucking hope I'm feeling. I quashed that son-of-a-bitch emotion months ago, and I'll be damned if I'm going to succumb to that shit again. The fear that I might fall prey to the bright side of life distracts me from my need to put her solidly in her place.
The moment of fury passes as quickly as it slammed into me, and I'm left without a good comeback to throw in her face.
Instead, I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and decide to give her this one. "Is that all?"
"That would make me happy. If you don't call Connor Dead Kid, I mean," she says with a twinkle in her eye. "For now."
For now? What the hell does that mean?
She wants me to make her happy in the future?
The way Maria looked to me for happiness and security? The way I knew she depended on me, and the way I felt so fucking good because I was responsible for the smile on her face?
Is that what Jillian "Pollyanna" Martel wants from me?
Yeah, that's not going to happen.
With a curt nod, I turn my back on her and walk up to the cash register. From the corner of my eye, I see Jillian walk out the door. She heads toward the gas pump where Goth Chick is pulling the pack of gum out of her bra to hand to Dead Kid Connor. Even from this distance, I can see him blushing and I almost have to suppress a slight urge to smile, but the moment passes.
There's a young girl behind the counter, sporting a red vest with the gas station logo over one breast and a name tag proclaiming her to be "Natalie" on the other. She gives me a flirty smile as I walk toward her, her eyes traveling down me slowly. When she gets to my legs, her shoulders tense, as expected, and when she lifts her gaze back to me, flirtation is gone and sympathy holds the smile in place.
I don't say a word as I place my items on the counter and reach in the back pocket of my cargo shorts for my wallet. She silently rings everything up and doesn't meet my eyes as I slide my credit card through the scanner and she bags my purchases.
I think I'm going to get away without a single word from this girl, but just as she's pushing the bag across the counter toward me, she swallows hard and says, "Um... I just wanted to say thank you for your service."
The Hard Truth About Sunshine Page 1
