The village’s clock strikes 2 am. I sit quietly on my bed, laptop opened on the bedside table as I write my last words to the world. The barks from outside send an echo around the room. I look towards the window, delaying going out for as long.
The blinds are shut, leaving me and the room lit only by the dim light coming out of the computer screen. A patch of white fur moves around the yard, like a guard scheduled for a night shift. I open the window just enough to be heard.
“Maple!” The patch floats to the gate, ready to offer her services in the line of duty “Go to bed.”
She sits down, facing the window, and begs her owner to come out. Unfortunately for her, I’m comfortable where I am, not a lot could make me move. But Maple is only a dog and being petted is an immediate need. She whines louder, her life depends on it.
I turn my laptop towards the door, lighting the way out. I grab a jacket from the chair on my desk and tiptoe to the entrance. My parents are asleep and there’s no reasonable explanation as to why I am still up. My shoes are outside, so I step out barefoot. Maple cries louder, unable to understand what’s taking so long.
“This is why people like Moose better.”
I say as I approach my friend. I squat down in front of the gate and pet the dog’s head. Maple sits down, whining quietly. The two of us look around, searching for a thing we can’t identify yet. I put my dog with both hands, something I don’t get to do often.
“Where’s Moose?”
Maple looks around, remembering why she was barking in the first place. She whines a bit, before lifting her paw to ask for more pets. I sigh, patting her head. Moose knows the way home and will make it back in a few hours. He’ll sit outside the gate and wait patiently for someone to open it. Jumping out is much easier than jumping back in. Maple always stays behind, too chubby to jump in any direction.
The town looks empty, lit only by a few yellowish streetlights. Everyone has gone to sleep a long time ago and the street is in complete silence. It could be the beginning of a ghost story if it wasn't just little old Green Valley.
I make my way down the street, ready to reason with Moose. But it’s deemed unnecessary as I hear the pitter-patter of tiny paws following behind me. He approaches slowly and lays down on my feet, stomach up, showing he’s ready to negotiate.
“One day, someone is going to run you over” I bend my knees and pet the dog’s belly “and it’s going to be your fault.”
After a few belly rubs, I grab Moose and carry him on my lap. He places his paws on my shoulders, so he can look back at the view, satisfied with his independent walk.
Maple is patiently waiting for her friend, and I drop the other dog inside the gate. The dogs greet each other, and Maple licks Moose’s face before heading off to bed. However, he doesn’t follow her. Instead, he sits down, whining as he stares down his owner.
“It’s very late, go to bed.”
He turns to the street, barking towards nothing. I stand unfazed, and he doesn’t like it. He runs to the other side of the yard, peeping towards the pathway he came from. He looks back, before barking loudly again.
“Please, don’t do that.”
He runs back to the gate, the barking never stops. I sigh. I take the garage key from the lanyard inside my pocket and enter through the small door. Two sets of harnesses and leashes are placed on the corner table, one blue, and one orange. I grab the blue one and Moose jumps up when he sees me coming back.
Maple is in bed, unbothered by anything that is happening around her. I open the gate just enough to grab the dog’s leg and slide the harness on him. He waits to be properly geared before pulling towards the road. He doesn’t walk up or down like he usually does. Instead, he pulls ahead, towards the curved shortcut that would just lead further down the main road.
A few meters ahead, a white car is on the side of the street. The front is smashed against the streetlight, smoke coming out of the hood. I look at the dog, surprised he was unto something for the first time. Moose quietly smells the back of the car, inspecting the crime scene. Next, he lifts his leg and pees on the tyre, an essential part of his job.
On the driver’s side, someone’s head rests against the wheel. The hair is brown, and as I try to open the door to get a closer look, Moose pulls me to the front of the car. A man lies unconscious in the middle of the road and the dog moves closer to smell him. He's probably in his 50s, with greyish hair and a week-old beard.
I grab the dog and carry him back home. I put him back inside the yard after unleashing him and giving him a head pat. He cries as he peeps towards the opposite side of the yard.
I head to the man on the floor first. Then, I place two fingers on his neck, slightly next to the Adam’s apple, and press gently. A few seconds go by but there is no heartbeat. Next, I walk towards the driver and open the door. An ambulance will take 20 minutes, high chance both will die.
I recognize Connor immediately. He lives just a few doors down, and we used to be friends back in primary school. He’s probably coming back from a New Year's party, potentially drunk. His physical condition is unknown, so I check his pulse, trying not to move his spine.
“What are you doing?”
Connor’s voice is a murmur, and I wouldn’t have heard it if everything else wasn’t so quiet. I drop his arm, startled. I was almost certain he was dead, or at least unconscious. He lifts his head slowly and brings his hand to his forehead, blood is running down his face. Confusion is spread across his face as he hasn't yet clocked in on what happened.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Why are you in my car?”
“I’m not in your car…” I start explaining before realising it doesn’t matter and it’s actually quite irrelevant “You crashed, are you okay?”
“My head hurts...” He closes his eyes and rests his head on the back of the seat. I try to take a closer look at his wound, he might have a concussion.
“Do you know what happened?” I don’t want to tire him with questions, but I do need more information than what I currently have, which is nothing. He sighs.
“Your stupid dog was on the road again.” he grunts “Is he dead?”
“My dog? No, he’s fine.”
“Good. Get him a leash.” Connor opens his eyes and turns to me “How bad is it?”
“How bad is what?
“The car, what the hell.”
“Oh.” I take a few seconds to think about my answer and if the chances of a heart attack would go up when you have a concussion and receive very upsetting news “Well, the car could be worse, given the circumstances.”
He stares me down, the same look of confusion in his eyes. He has no idea what happened, and I’m probably the worst person to be giving this news.
“The car is okay, I think. But you killed someone so yeah… there’s that.”
He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything and I stay silent with him. He looks through the windshield, unable to see the body but too scared to go outside. I wonder if he remembers, if he saw the man before it happened. Or if everything happened too fast for him to notice. We stay like that for a while, just him imagining the man he killed and me imagining what’s going through his head.
“Did you see him?” he finally asks.
“He could look worse. Internal bleeding probably.” I regret every word that comes out of my mouth, but he doesn’t seem to mind it.
“Did you call an ambulance?”
“No, I was checking on you first.”
“Don’t.” He says, no doubt in his answer.
I offer to help him out but he tells me to step aside, which I do. He glances at the body from the sidewalk, never actually moving closer to him. While staring at him, he says:
“We need to get rid of it.”
I look towards the man; I can barely see from where I'm standing. I don't know his name, but I do know he orders four bread rolls when the baker drives by. He wears a checkered flat cap, but not today. It feels odd to look at him. You'd think it's because he's dead, but it's the absence of his hat.
“What’s your plan?”
I turn my attention to Connor, who was probably speaking this entire time. I don’t have a plan, I wasn’t aware I needed one when I got out a few minutes ago. I look between Connor and the man for what feels like an eternity. But I’m unable to form any thoughts. I curse the jacket I have on as my hands sweat inside my pockets.
“What?”
“I said you’re better at… planning stuff.”
I tell him to wait as I make my way back home, and he does. He willingly stays behind, not once questioning if I will be back. I could simply walk inside and call the police, and it would be too late to do anything by the time he figured it out. Instead, I grab my car key and the controller for the main garage door.
There’s a corner on the left side of my garage reserved for empty card boxes that we kept “just in case”. I flat a few and lay them on the trunk of my car, wondering if this is why my mom deemed them as useful. I throw in the stapler gun and a knife I grabbed from the tool table before driving towards Connor.
He’s in the same place he was before, time has stopped for now. I hand him a pair of plastic gloves from the glove compartment and take one for myself. We walk to the body, and without the need to say it out loud, I grab the man’s legs and Connor takes the arms. He drops the torso inside the trunk before helping me fold the legs and the man ends up in some sort of foetal position, which is ironic given the circumstances. I store the gloves inside a fifth unused one and tie the wrist into a knot.
I drive in silence, unsure if starting a conversation would make this situation any less weird. Connor doesn’t seem to mind. I glance towards him a few times, but he doesn’t notice or if he does, he chooses not to interact. I wonder what is going through his head, what can he be thinking about as we drive away to dump a body. But I don’t ask, and I think he appreciates it.
We arrived at the beach a few minutes later. The coast goes on forever and I drive along the sand until it stops at the base of a cliff. The wind blows quietly, only noticeable through the waving of the flags. A wooden set of stairs overlooks the ocean, the sand slowly turns into grass. We head uphill.
In a matter of seconds, we’re no longer by the shore. The beach has been replaced by a walkway over the rocky floor. Only a small wooden fence separates the scenery from a 500-foot fall.
I park next to the fence, ignoring the designated parking area on the other side of the road. Connor doesn’t say anything, and I make my way to the trunk. A part of me hopes I’m wrong, let him jump out of the car and knock me out. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lies in the same position he was left in, unfazed by the passing of time.
I take a deep breath and a pair of gloves. I start by moving his legs, the rest of his body rolls out of the car as expected. He’s facing the ground and I’m selfishly glad I don’t have to look him in the eyes.
“I could use some help here.”
I pray to God Connor’s not passed out, fully aware that if God does exist, I’m not deserving of his help. Still, I ask Him to not leave me alone, not now. I’m doing what I can from a very bad situation. That should count for something.
Connor remains seated, his head against the headrest. His eyes are closed and he doesn't reply, I worry he might have a concussion. I open the passenger door and observe him, he has aged 20 years in the past hour.
“You alright?”
He opens his eyes and slowly turns his head in my direction.
“I can’t do this.”
"What do you mean?"
“I can’t…”
I take a deep breath, repeating the same words I've been telling myself for the past hour. And hope they bring him the same reassurance they've brought me.
“Whatever you’re feeling is valid. But it’s too late to… not finish the job.”
He doesn't say anything back. Unfortunately, the clock is ticking and neither of us can afford to wait around for him to process whatever happened. I head back to the trunk of the car and bring one of the cardboards to the edge of the cliff.
On my way back, I signal Connor with my head, and he follows in silence. I grab the legs, he grabs the arms. There's a look on his face like he's somewhere else. His mind is absent, leaving me with an empty auto-piloted version of him. And for now, that will have to do.
We drop the body on the cardboard. I walk back to the car, slowly, fending off on the inevitable. I crafted the perfect plan on our way here, but it takes courage that I haven't gathered it yet.
The pockets behind the car seats are stocked with shopping bags, I pick one.
“I need you to fill this bag with rocks.”
Connor nods and walks off until I can no longer see him. I gave him the easy part because I know he doesn't have what it takes. Physically speaking, it'd be easier for a man to do what I'm about to do. But like any neurotypical, he'd be seeing a person. Whoever this is, he stopped being a person a while ago. It's a corpse now, a lump of bones and body tissue. That's what I need to focus on.
I grab the knife I threw in the car. Flesh is as thick as a piece of raw chicken. And I could slice a chicken open. So theoretically, this should be easy. I pull the shirt up and cover the man’s face to stop him from looking at me.
I stick the knife in his stomach, there's no point in second-guessing now. I drag it up, towards his head, and make a parallel line with his arms. The smell of blood is nauseating. I place the tip of my finger inside the cut, to make sure it’s deep enough. My fingers slide in easily and I use the rest of my hand to open the wound.
An intestine strongly resembles raw sausage meat. His torso is painted in the most crimson of reds and I can’t stop looking at what I’ve done. The more I see, the more I smell. I feel an ick forming in the back of my throat and I turn to the side just in time.
My vomit lands next to his head and I’m glad I covered his face, wouldn’t want to disrespect his body any more than necessary. Tears roll down my cheeks as my throat is burned by what's left of my dinner. I feel Connor crotch behind me and his hand holds my hair back.
“I got your rocks”, he says when I’m done.
I try to cough away the acidic aftertaste, but it doesn’t help. Connor helps me up and I head for the water bottle in my car. I alternate between sips and deep breaths. I notice a bag of rocks next to the body and I’m reminded of why I’m here. Tomorrow, all of this will feel like a weird dream. Right now, it drags on forever.
I hand Connor a pair of gloves and he puts them on, no questions asked. I place myself back where I was, now both my hands spreading the cut open. Connor places the rocks inside, arranging them to maximise the quantity, like a sick version of Tetris. Then, he grabs the stapler from the car and staples the skin back together, while I hold both sides in place.
For a while, none of us says anything. We just sit in silence, staring at the improvised operation we were forced to perform. I wonder how long it will last and swallow my vomit as I picture the staples giving up to report us. The rocks come out first, followed by a thin 4-meter-long intestine, floating somewhere under the sea.
We turn to each other at the same time, and that's how we know it's time. Most of the blood stayed within the cardboard so, we dragged it out as close to the edge as possible. I pull his shirt back down and on the count of three, we flip the platform together, sending the body down the cliff.
I watch as he tumbles down against the rocks, wondering how much more pain will he have to endure. His sinking body is taken away by a wave and I wish him all the best.
I don't notice Connor walking away, but I see him walking back with a bin bag. He opens the bag and starts with one of the ends of the cardboard, pushing the rest inside as he goes, along with all the blood on it. There’s a bin on the other side of the road, and that’s where he goes.
There are a few drops of blood left on the floor. I use my foot to mix it with the rest of the dirt, erasing what was left of this man and what happened to him. I look towards the water, the waves crash against the rocks. And as expected, he is gone, left to never be seen again.
I drive back as fast as I can, scared of what I might do if I let myself think too much. Connor doesn’t make any conversation, and I wish I could read his mind.
“When do you go back?” I ask.
When we were in primary school, he’d talk about travelling far away. Our village was too small. I must have been 15 the last time we talked and now he studies abroad. I can’t remember where.
“Tomorrow,” he glances towards the clock “I mean, today.” I nod and he doesn’t add anything else.
I drop him at his house, just a few doors down. When he wakes up, he will call insurance and tell them he had an accident, hit a streetlamp on his way home. No casualties. And we will both go on with our lives. At least, that’s the plan.
I drive back to mine, passing Connor’s car on my way there. The man sits quietly by the sidewalk, and I wish I had a name to call him, to remember him by. Chester, he mouths.
The dogs are in bed and don’t acknowledge my presence. I reverse into the garage, like I’d do on any day. Before I leave, I check the trunk. The tools I brought are inside a glove. I only open it once I’m next to the emergency sink on the back. I wash the knife and the stapler gun before putting them back and inspect the trunk one last time before closing it.
Chester waits for me outside, watching me as I wait for the automatic gate to close. He doesn’t speak and he doesn’t approach me, but I can spot him from the corner of my eye.
I head straight to the bathroom. I rinsed my hands with the water bottle before driving, but it wasn’t enough. I can feel the blood sticking to my hands and I rub them until they’re red and I can no longer tell my skin apart from the blood stains.
I lay in bed for what felt like an eternity, never fully rested. I close my eyes and see Chester, over and over. At first, he’s a dad. He takes his kids to school, one by the hand and the smaller one on his shoulders. I can hear them laughing but they stop when I look. Their mouths have been stapled shut.
A car drives towards them and they don’t hear me when I try to warn them. Now, Chester is a reckless driver making sure to drive over the three of them. He grabs the smaller one by the throat and throws his lifeless body in my direction. I fall with the impact, my body trapped under a small corpse.
I reach for the phone in my pocket,
Chester, how can I help?
Driver Chester runs in my direction. I fear for my life but instead, he kicks the phone out of my hand. It’s too late now, he says.
I wake up sweating, the sun shining through my window. I can hear Mom in the kitchen and I wait until she’s gone. I don’t know if she heard me coming last night and I’m not sure of how to explain why I was out.
There’s a pile of clothes by the door, waiting to be put outside to dry. I grab the basket and Moose cries when I open the door. I place the clothes on the clothesline, Moose barks impatiently. When I’m done, I head to the yard and pet his head through the gate.
“Excuse me, miss.”
A police officer stands on the sidewalk, waiting for my permission to approach. I raise an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect. He points to the streetlight on the opposite side of the road, asks if I know what happened. I shrug.
“There was a car there this morning. I think they towed it.”
“What type of car?”
“White.”
“What brand?”
“Medium-sized.”
He stares me down, a blank look on his face. Even if I wanted to cooperate, I truly don’t know what car it was. I could say it was Connor’s, make this random man give me the prize for most useful witness ever. But I don’t know what he did with it, and the less me and the officer know, the better.
“Do you know this man?”
He shows me a picture of Chester wearing his hat and a matching vest, a big smile placed on his face. I catch myself wondering where he was going then, all dressed up, and where he was going yesterday, in the middle of the night.
“I think he lives nearby… but I don’t know his name.”
He nods, putting the picture back in his pocket. He thanks me for my time and leaves, no further explanation necessary. He walks down the street, to the police car parked a few houses down. Monica is standing next to the car, talking with another officer. Chester was her father.
He used to live somewhere else, but he kept wandering off in the middle of the night. Police would bring him back but not a lot could be done. Alzheimer's.
Monica thought it would be good for him to move back here, to be somewhere that felt familiar. I agree and tell her I hope he is found. Then, I run inside my house and throw up on the sink. I can’t remember doing anything else for the rest of the day. I just cry and throw up and cry until it’s night again.
For dinner, I tell Mom I'm not hungry and swallow my pills mixed with sadness. Still, she makes me a cup of tea, unaware of the monster I have become. Chester sits beside my bed, and he moves closer and closer until his presence feels suffocating.
I sit outside, it’s a quiet night. Light rain falls from the sky and I wonder if it was enough to clean the beach of our presence. As I walk up and down the street, I wonder if I will ever get rid of this guilt or if that’s the punishment that will forever follow me.
I hear steps behind me. Slow, steady, until they stop. I want to turn around, to see what’s behind me, but before I’m able to, they start again. Faster and faster and before I notice, we’re both running towards nowhere.
I run down the road and across the fields. I run as fast as I can until my legs give out and I fall in a patch of weeds. I lay there, panting for my life, and I wish that whatever was coming for me would come fast. The weeds stick to my bare legs, glued by the sweat I’m drenched in. I let the fatigue and prickling consume me until it doesn't feel like my body anymore.
The world feels imbalanced. Like my existence is some sort of cosmic mistake that needs to be sorted. If God exists, I don’t think He can interfere in human matters. But maybe, this is His way of letting me know I don’t belong here. This sinking feeling buried in my chest.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you run before.”
Connor walks towards me, but I don’t move. I stay still, even more than before, and hope he leaves if I keep this up long enough. Instead, he sits down.
“Thought you’d be gone by now.”
“I changed my mind.”
I roll over on my back and sigh. The sky looks as empty as always. I made a deal with God a long time ago, he’d send me a shooting star when it was time to finally do it. And although He wasn’t, I can’t help but feel like I’ve overstayed.
“I was going to kill myself, you know?” I lift my torso so I can look at Connor, who sits directly in front of me, just far enough for me to stretch my legs without touching him “That’s why I was up yesterday.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says almost immediately. Then, he shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
“I bet your friends are so much cooler now.”
I try to imagine them together, Connor and what I’ve decided his friends look like. They go out for a pint and hold out cigarettes as they talk about the latest football match. They drink too much and end up in someone’s house, reminiscing about their childhoods.
They tell him about their siblings, their towns, their dreams. Connor tells them about the weirdest kid that has ever existed and how he had to stop talking to her when they started secondary school in order to be somebody.
“They’re not as good as you,” he lies and I laugh.
“I’ve never been good at anything.”
We sit in silence until my head is too heavy to carry. I lay back down, staring at the empty sky. I feel something moving but I'm too tired to look. Connor lies next to me, on the left, and Chester on the right. Or maybe it's the other way around. I'm not too sure.
“Maybe this will be your year,” he says and that’s the last thing I hear.
I close my eyes, let myself rest. A hand holds mine but it doesn’t matter who it is. This year will be my year, I repeat over and over again until all the demons that ever haunted me finally hear it.
Chester gives me a smile, his hat is back where it belongs. I wish him all the best. He doesn’t respond but I know he hears me. This will be our year.