We Told Six Lies

by Victoria Scott

  He glares at me. “Yeah, I do think you need me, asshole. That’s why I’m here instead of having fun with my friends. That’s why I’m here instead of going to class like my scholarship requires me to. You’re my brother. I love you, damn it.”

  His words gut me. Fill me with guilt. But I’m too angry and too afraid for guilt.

  I hit him.

  A shot across the jaw that cracks his head backward and sends him flying across the room. He smashes into his old desk and hits his head on the side of his bed. I expect him to stay down. But I’m wrong.

  Holt goes for my legs.

  He knocks my knees out from under me, and I drop to the floor. Before I can push myself up, Holt gets in one shot. He hits me in the ear, and all around the world, bells toll, sending vibrations through my brain.

  I lunge at Holt, and we roll across the ground. He punches me in the shoulder, and I pop him in the nose. Blood drips to the carpet, and I know the stain will never come out.

  I hit him again and again and again until I register my mom screaming my name. A light switches on in the recesses of my mind.

  “Stop, Cobain,” she screams. “Stop!”

  She grabs my shoulders and shakes me. Looks down at Holt and reaches for him. And even though I know I’m covered in scratches, too, she only turns her angry glare on me. “What happened here?”

  I look at Holt. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  She glances at Holt and then back at me. “I’m asking you.”

  “I’m fucking out of here,” Holt says, scrambling to his feet and wiping the blood from his face. “Way to be home for the one moment you aren’t needed,” he snarls at Mom.

  “Holt,” I yell as he stalks out of my room, because it’s starting to hit me what I just did. He’s my brother. My brother.

  Mom ignores him and grabs me. “Why aren’t you at school? Why are you fighting your brother? What is wrong with you?”

  I shake my head. Softly at first, and then harder and harder. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.”

  My voice breaks, and I have to stop talking. My mom holds on to my arms for a moment longer as I shake.

  Please don’t leave me.

  Please don’t leave me.

  Tears slip down my cheeks, and I want to destroy what’s left of this room. I hate that I can cry at all. I want to drain every drop of moisture from my body and shrivel to dust just to ensure no one ever sees that I am capable of feeling pain.

  My mother looks at me with sympathy so deep I can taste it in the back of my throat. Then she releases me, shakes her head, and says, “I have to go. I forgot my phone, but they’re waiting on me. A new kid came in overnight, and I—

  “Mom,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Mom, please.”

  She stops and stares at me for a moment that feels like it could change everything. A moment I didn’t realize I needed until it stood between the two of us, holding my hand and holding hers. My mom looks at me for a second longer, and then her eyes flick from mine to the bedroom. “Clean this place up, okay? And get back to school. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”

  She stops in the doorway. “Everything will be okay. I don’t know what you were fighting about, but you’ll work it out.” Another pause. “Call me if you need me.”

  I nod.

  I nod because this is what she needs from me.

  She points to the room. “Clean. Then school.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  She’s gone then.

  And Holt is gone.

  And Molly is gone.

  And I am gone, and I have nothing left to lose, so I might as well drown in this darkness that’s right here at my feet, waiting with open arms.

  THEN

  I took you to my favorite spot.

  I figured since you’d done the same for me, it was my turn to return the favor.

  I love trains. Did I tell you that? I read a book once about a girl who ran away on one. The cover had purple flowers on the front, and though my brother gave me shit about it, I knew he would read it after I did.

  Nerves gnawed at my stomach as we approached the tracks. I searched your face for any sign that you’d laugh at where I’d brought you. But you took my hand when you saw them and said, “This doesn’t surprise me.”

  I was torn then. Happy because you knew me when few people did. Frustrated that I couldn’t surprise you.

  You seemed to sense this and said, “I wouldn’t have taken you for the kind of guy to have a spot, though. You seem more like a weekend drifter.”

  “You don’t know me as well as you think,” I said, to complete the circle.

  “Have you ever brought anyone else out here?” you asked, stepping onto the tracks with your arms held out on either side to stay balanced. “Another girl?”

  You smiled, but I heard the jealousy in your voice. What’s more, your eyes flicked with anger. You, like me, hated experiencing emotions that made you vulnerable.

  “Only my brother.” I zipped up my leather jacket, something I’d stolen from a thrift store because I thought it made me look even bigger. I’d worn it to school expecting a note of envy in the other students’ faces. Instead, a kid everyone called King because he only ever ate Burger King said I looked like a walking garbage bag and threw a paper ball down the back of my shirt.

  I found him outside after school that day and beat the shit out of him. He never told anyone it was me that gave him those black eyes. Said he got in a fight and man, you should see the other guy. I let him have his lie and stared at the floor when I passed him in the hallway.

  “You love your brother, huh?” you said, hopping off the tracks.

  I shrugged and took your place between the rails, stepping from one tie to the next.

  “You talk about him a lot,” you said. “Maybe I should meet him.”

  “Okay,” I said, but I didn’t want you to meet him, because everyone preferred my brother over me—my dad, my mom, my teachers. What if you did, too?

  “Rhana still won’t talk to me,” you said. “All I said was that I needed a little space. I mean, she wanted me to spend the night every night. Made me claustrophobic.”

  My heart lurched because I wondered then, Do I make you claustrophobic?

  “No, you make me happy,” you said, because you always knew what was in my brain. I liked it. No, actually, maybe I didn’t. No, I did.

  “Anyway, now she’s pissed that I keep hanging out with Nixon. Guess she thinks I should sulk like she’s doing, but whatever.” As an afterthought, you said, “Last time I talked to her she wanted to show me her dad’s canoe. Like, what are we going to do? Go canoeing? She’s starting to make up excuses to be with me.”

  “Maybe she’s in love with you,” I said.

  You made a face, but when you realized I wasn’t joking, you said, “You think?”

  You seemed to consider this, and for just a moment, a look of contemplation and a small smile lifted your face. Then you shook your head.

  “Nah,” you said. “She’s just trying to avoid her parents.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  You reached out and took my hand, and we walked like that for several minutes, me stepping over the ties and you stepping through the frozen grass. You had on yellow rain boots. I’ll never forget those rain boots as long as I live.

  I glanced over at you and saw how your face had fallen. “What is it?”

  You shrugged.

  “You’re thinking about how to get out of here?” I said, because whenever talk of parents arose, you withdrew into yourself. I was reminded of that night beside the restaurant, when I promised you I’d get us out of here. Far, far away from this town and the shackles that bound us.

  “I’m still saving money,” I said quickly. But it wasn’t coming fast enough. Because of scho
ol, I could only earn about a hundred and fifty bucks a week. I needed enough for a car. For gas. And we’d need motel money. And money for food and clothing and medicine and all the other crap Mom said we took for granted.

  After I graduated I could work more, but could you wait six months, and then even more after that? Could I? If I were being honest, I’d admit that I was afraid you’d change your mind. Pick someone else to run away with you.

  You would run. There was no doubt about that.

  “It’s okay,” you said, but your voice sounded so broken that I wanted to rip the bones from my body and give them to you for strength. “I’ve been applying to places.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised.

  “No luck yet, but I’m sure I’ll get something soon.”

  And then what? I thought. Then we’d spend the rest of our lives stuck here, squirreling away what little money we had for a dream we’d never reach. Money would get sucked into places we hadn’t anticipated. We’d fight, blame each other, and break up. You’d start dating a mechanic that talked about opening his own shop. I’d run into you, years later, see your swollen stomach and the tiredness on your face, and think, That could be my child. That could be my tired face I kiss good night. But I was too chickenshit to take her away.

  “Maybe they’ll promote you,” you said, your spirits lifting. “You’re the best employee Steel has. If you became like Duane, you could make more money. He’s got that nice car, and he always has cash with him.”

  Be like Duane? Fucking Duane?

  How do you know what his car looks like?

  “The cash he leaves the club with?” I ask, unable to hide the venom in my voice. “That’s just him making the deposits. Duane is an asshole.”

  “Is he really that—”

  “He’s an asshole,” I repeat.

  I stop walking, and you squeeze my hand. “He is pretty douchey.”

  I smile. “You have no idea.”

  Something flashes behind your eyes. I’m trying to figure out what it is when you raise your finger and point in the distance. “A train.”

  The look on your face is pure euphoria. There’s something about seeing you like this—unguarded. Exhilarated. You tried so hard to hide your true self, but I saw you, Molly. If I was sad, then you were lying at the bottom of an ocean. But you smiled when you saw that train. And you smiled every time you saw me. And so I said something I had never said before—

  “I love you, Molly.”

  My eyes enlarged, and my heart enlarged, and I watched, petrified, as you turned to look at me.

  You didn’t speak. But the train did, releasing a long, mournful wail as it sped closer.

  I saw in your eyes what you were going to say before you ever said it, but it still gutted me all the same.

  “You don’t love me, Cobain,” you said with a smile that covered your pain. “Now, get off those tracks and come kiss me.”

  I released your hand, and concern flashed across your face. “I do love you, Molly Bates.”

  You pursed your lips, glanced at the train that seemed to pick up its pace. “Seriously, get off the tracks.”

  “Tell me you understand what I’m saying,” I insisted.

  You shook your head. “What do you want me to say to that? You can’t love me. We’ve known each other for two months.”

  “I knew from the moment I saw you.” I looked at the train. It screamed as it sailed closer and closer. In the distance, I saw the shimmer of water on the tracks—a trick of light and metal.

  “Cobain, get off the tracks.”

  You tried pushing me, but I planted my feet on either side of the rails. It was stupid, but I didn’t care. I only cared that you knew how I felt. That you accepted that someone could truly love you. “Say you believe me.”

  Your voice broke. “No. No. Get off the tracks. Cobain, Jesus, please move!”

  You were crying, tears spilling down your face. I said, “Is it that hard to believe?”

  You shook your head. Looked at the train. Looked back at me and opened your beautiful mouth. “Fine. You love me. Get down!”

  The conductor saw me on the tracks and pulled the horn. Once, twice, enough times so that it shook my brain inside my skull.

  “Say it like you mean it,” I demanded. “I love you. Tell me you understand. Make me believe you.”

  You tried to push me again, and again I stayed rooted in place. Your eyes darted to the train, and you howled and jumped on the tracks beside me, but I pushed you off them so easily.

  The train roared toward me.

  My heart roared toward you.

  And you screamed, finally, with your arms thrown open wide and your face full of fear, “You love me. I believe you, Cobain. You love me!”

  I stepped backward off the tracks and stumbled from the force of the train barreling by.

  Above the sound of the train rumbling, I heard you shouting my name from the other side of the tracks.

  When the last car passed between us, you searched the area until you found me. We stood across from each other. Your chest heaved. Mine did, too.

  I took one step toward you.

  I took another.

  And then I was running. I leaped over the tracks and grabbed you, but you were there to greet me with a cold slap across my face.

  “How dare you?” you screamed.

  “How dare I love you?” I said. “Because I do.”

  “Fuck you,” you said, and hit me again. You started to walk away, and I watched you go, realizing I’d pushed you too far. I considered chasing after you. I stood there, wishing I could say something to make you turn around, but words were never my strong suit.

  I turned to go, leaving my heart there on the tracks in case you came back for it.

  I made it only a few feet before you called my name.

  When I turned around, I saw you moving toward me. Slow at first, and then faster. I waited, empty chest aching, as you closed the distance between us. When your body crashed into mine, I grabbed you by the thighs. Hauled you into the air as you threw your legs around my waist. You pressed your lips to mine, and I felt the wetness on your cheeks.

  I walked until your back pressed into the trunk of a tree. You grabbed me tighter, kissed me deeper, and I wondered if I’d stepped out of that train’s path too late after all. If this were death I’d stepped into instead. If it was, I thought, I’d take it.

  I trailed kisses down your neck and lightly bit your shoulder.

  “I love you, Molly,” I breathed into your hair.

  “I know,” you said, and kissed each of my eyes in turn, and then my ears, too. There was a difference in the way you touched me that day. Instead of passion and urgency, it was tenderness. And honesty.

  “I’m going to get the money to get us away from here,” I said. “We’ll go to the beach. Or the mountains. Texas or Nevada. Whatever.”

  You unlocked your legs and slid down my body until those yellow rain boots touched the ground. Your arms stayed locked around my middle, and you looked up at me with a question in your eyes.

  “I’m going to steal it,” I said, nodding. “I’m going to steal the money from Duane when he goes to make a deposit.”

  MOLLY

  Blue came for Molly two days after he’d taken her outside.

  Moonlight invaded her small bathroom, telling her it was story time. Story time happened before bed but after dinner. She would sit at the foot of her bed and recount stories she’d read. She’d change words here and there to make them interesting.

  Jack and the Giant Octopus

  Cinderella vs. The Stepmother: A Battle of Wits & Magic

  Three Sleeping Bears and A Little Girl Devoured by Envy

  She wasn’t very good at telling stories, but that’s why she enjoyed doing it. It passed the time. And the time
—those empty hours spent trapped between four barren walls—rattled her more than he did.

  She was in the middle of a romance—a story about a prince who stood upon train tracks and declared his love as a dragon barreled toward him—when her door was unlocked.

  Blue came toward her, and she noticed he had changed. His jeans were darker, his black boots polished. He wore the same jacket, but beneath it peeked a plum-colored shirt.

  He strode toward her with a knife, and her heart lurched, though she should know better by now. Blue cut the restraints around her wrists, and she rubbed the skin there, though it wasn’t sore. He was always careful, she noticed, to not secure them too tightly.

  He motioned toward the box at the foot of her bed, which still held the red dress he’d brought days earlier.

  “Want me to wear it?” she asked.

  He stared at her until she pulled the material from the box and went into the bathroom. She hid behind the wall, since there was no door, and slipped the dirtied white dress up over her shoulders. The red one took its place.

  When she reappeared, Blue looked at her for longer than he had in the other dresses. Then he flicked his blade toward the stairs. She walked in front of him, ready to slide the next piece of her plan into place. She had shown him that she wasn’t going to run away at the first opportunity. She’d shown affection when he expected hostility. Now was the time to reveal the ace she held in her palm.

  She came to the top of the stairs, and he reached past her and pointed to the right, toward the kitchen. She allowed her eyes to flick once in the opposite direction where the front door remained locked. Then she forced herself to go to the kitchen table. There lay two plates, two plastic cups, and two polished spoons.

  She waited for him to tell her where to sit. He slapped his hand twice against one of the chairs, and she pulled it out, folded the dress beneath her, and sat down. She thought, as he moved toward the kitchen, of Cobain.

  If her evenings were for stories and moonlight and the sweet relief of sleep, then the daylight was for thinking of him. Of what she had almost done to him. She remembered his lips on her throat, his gentle hands in her hair.