Everything's an insult when your soul is bankrupt.
Joey and Wayland may have returned to Baltimore after their deaths, but things are not the same through eyes tainted by death. The city seems darker, the graffiti louder, and a meltdown is only a hair-trigger away. Joeyâs ready for everything to go back to normal, but that might not be possible when every time sheâs around Wayland, heâs dripping with someoneâs freshly spilled blood. Meanwhile, Jagâs losing his patience with Joeyâs preference for her serial killer best friend.
Desperate to keep her life together in a somewhat recognizable way, Joey discovers that a local medium might have a way to calm the regret-fueled rage that plagues both her and Wayland, driving them both further out of control with each passing day. In hopes of a return to normal, she sets out to ask the authorities of the afterlife to grant her and Wayland a real second chance.
The ravens stalking her promise that if she doesnât move quickly, she may lose everything she cares about. With a past and a future that canât compromise, tragedy doesnât spare the indecisive.
Everything's an insult when your soul is bankrupt.
Joey and Wayland may have returned to Baltimore after their deaths, but things are not the same through eyes tainted by death. The city seems darker, the graffiti louder, and a meltdown is only a hair-trigger away. Joeyâs ready for everything to go back to normal, but that might not be possible when every time sheâs around Wayland, heâs dripping with someoneâs freshly spilled blood. Meanwhile, Jagâs losing his patience with Joeyâs preference for her serial killer best friend.
Desperate to keep her life together in a somewhat recognizable way, Joey discovers that a local medium might have a way to calm the regret-fueled rage that plagues both her and Wayland, driving them both further out of control with each passing day. In hopes of a return to normal, she sets out to ask the authorities of the afterlife to grant her and Wayland a real second chance.
The ravens stalking her promise that if she doesnât move quickly, she may lose everything she cares about. With a past and a future that canât compromise, tragedy doesnât spare the indecisive.
âYou sound like a fucking lunatic, Joey.â Jagâs pacing from the small kitchen into the living room of my trailer. Thereâs not much space, just enough for what little furniture my dad and I had: a crappy table holding my dadâs stolen TV, his recliner, a TV tray, a folding chair against the wall, the cheap card table my dad and I pretended we ate at sometimes. Dad broke one of the chairs from the set a while back. Iâve got the scar on my left forearm where the plastic went in.
Itâs only been a few hours since I died, came back, shot my dad dead twice, and watched the reaper finally collect his soul for good. I donât know if itâs hit me yet that heâs not coming back. Iâd call myself numb, but Iâm hyped like Iâve been at a concert for the last three hours and Iâm ready for more shoving and jumping and maybe a brawl in the parking lot where you can still hear the electric guitars and drums, but securityâs not gonna do a damn to stop anyone.
âI donât know what else to say, Jay.â I shrug. âYou said it yourself, I donât look normal and itâs not drugs.â Every time I catch my reflection, thereâs too much black around my eyes to be eyeliner and too much red to just be tired. Then my hands are so pale that the blue and red veins running through them look too vibrant, like my skinâs too thin.
Jag makes another lap across the kitchen, keeping his time in the living room short because it keeps him further away from Wayland, but thereâs not enough space. He runs into the empty chair at the table, then the table, then dadâs chair, and he swears under his breath when his boot hits some broken glass left behind from a smashed bottle. With the next step, he kicks a plastic bottle of Bartonâs. He hisses a mixture of mostly, âGoddamn it, Joey,â and âShitâ and âWhat the hell?â with a groan. Jag brings his cigarette to his lips, sucks hard, and exhales. âYour house always this bad?â
âWhen you kick the shit out of the furniture, yeah.â I shrug. Look away. Maybe a little embarrassed that this is the first time Jagâs really been in my house.
Jagâs eyes catch on dadâs gun sitting on the counter. He keeps looking at it like he thinks Iâm gonna grab it or Wayâs gonna grab it and someoneâs gonna end up shot, but Waylandâs still sitting in the folding chair on the other side of Dadâs recliner. Heâs been tense since Jagâs car pulled back up out front. His fingers curl so tightly around the seat that his knuckles are white. Every so often, heâs muttering that heâs fine, but itâs pretty obvious heâs not, so Iâve been trying to keep the storytelling short to get us out of here faster. Though, I donât even know where weâd go.
Not like this.
My footâs bouncing against the floor. I stand up. Jag stops pacing, points back to the chair, and says, âSit.â
With gritted teeth, I do.
I grab the box of cigarettes off the table and light another one. Jag takes a beer from the fridge. The house smells like my dadâs ripe corpse, piss, and the pizza none of us have touched.
I breathe in the cigarette. Eyes stinging, I wipe them with the back of my hand. âYou saw my body, Jay.â My footâs tapping again. The nicotineâs doing nothing to calm my nerves while Jagâs making me itch for another fight. I get stuck watching dadâs recliner; he shouldâve been sitting in it, he shouldâve been telling me to get Wayland and Jag out. Somehow, the nasty red stains left behind by his splattered brain are darker. The stains of so many years of misery make the chair look like itâs a bleeding, rotting corpse all its own. The spot that stands out the most is where his head was when he ate lead the first time. I take another hit from the cigarette, wiping at my eyes. A laugh bubbles out. I thought stains were supposed to fade with age, just like the bad stuff that happens to you, but they donât. Fifteen years isnât enough to make blood blend into brown carpets with every other mess?
Bullshit.
Jag leans against the wall by the table beside me. His beer bottle hisses. He sets the cap on the table, then the roomâs quiet. Jagâs steps are heavier than mine. I wear sneakers, heâs got on steel-toed boots, and they keep making me think itâs my dad down the hall because heâs supposed to be around. I mean, how long has it been since his ass hasnât been in the recliner or somewhere around it? I keep hitting my back into the flat, plastic cushion on my chair and I keep waiting to hear my dad yelling from down the hall, âYou bitch,â and âWhatâs the noise?â and âWhat the hellâs he doing in my house? I told you I never wanted to see that assholeâs face again. Iâm gonna lay him out if he doesnât leave right fuckinâ now,â and Jagâll say, âLetâs do it old man,â and heâll knock my dad out. Then when Jagâs gone, Dadâll pay the favor back to me.
Irony is the only time dad met Jag was through the house window. Metâs not an accurate word. He saw Jag drop me off a couple of times, yelled at him through the wall, then when I came in he said, âYouâre really planning to leave me, huh?â Any time he got that kind of insecure, Iâd say, âIf I was gonna leave you, I wouldâve done it by now, Dad,â but it didnât matter. He never believed me and acted like heâd never heard it before. If he was dead all this time, maybe he actually never did remember.
Dead, drunk, something reset in him to replay his worst day, every day, and he couldnât escape it.
âYour regret will consume you,â Charonâs words echo in my head. âEverything you may not have liked about yourself, amplify it. Your regret will fuel you.â
Iâm leaning forward, checking down the hall toward my room and his. The bathroom door hangs open. I should be listening for his heavy steps getting off the chair or coming out of the shower after I finally forced him to wash after a week. None of the thudding is him; heâs not here; heâs not coming back and I still canât believe it.
âIt was dark,â Jag finally says.
âYou took a picture, right?â I lean back.
âIâm not keeping a picture of a corpse on my phone,â Jag says.
Wayland stands up with a jerk; his chair falls over.
Jag pushes off the wall, body tense. âFinal warning, Cross. If you donât keep your ass in the chair, Iâm gonna beat it until you canât make a different choice. Got it?â
Waylandâs stiff. His fingers curl. I think heâs actually going to jump Jag. I feel it. Then, his stare comes to me like heâs remembering Iâm still here. With trembling hands, he picks his chair up from the floor. He sits back down, never taking his eyes off Jag.
My teeth pull at my lip ring. Iâm bouncing harder against the back of my seat too, but now with my head bobbing like thereâs music and I canât tell if what Iâm hearing is from the neighborâs house or just in my head. âGive it a couple of days, Jay,â I say. âSomeone should call. Someoneâll need to ID the body and I donât have anyone else left.â
Jag turns back to me. He drags on the cigarette. âYou actually made me an emergency contact with someone?â
âYeah?â
I twist away, turn to the table, pull at a piece of pizza even though Iâm not hungry. Half of it is plain cheese. The side Jag got for me because he knows thatâs what I like, even if he thinks itâs gross and laughs at me every time we order because itâs so plain. âI can call Charon back if thatâll make you feel better.â
âWho?â Jag says.
âThe dude in white who took my dad earlier?â
âJoeyâŚâ Jag presses his hand to his forehead, sighing. âYou need to get out of this house. Itâs making you crazy.â
âAre you fucking serious?â I stand up.
Jag straightens, directs me to sit down with his hand.
I ignore him. âYouâre telling me you didnât see him?â
âNo.â Jag crosses his arms. âI saw him, but youâre stressed. He couldâve been a paramedicââ
âLiterally what?â I sit down and pick up the bottle of lukewarm beer Iâve been nursing, though I donât drink it. My nail polish is chipped. My fingers are stained black and dried blood sits caked under my nails. A sip makes the cold move under my skin, from my hands to my toes. Iâm hoping itâll cool off some of the nervous energy Iâve got telling me I need to get the hell out of this house and find the next person who deserves to meet my dadâs gun. âWhere was the ambulance, Jag? What about the raven? And who the hell ever cared about us Deadwood deadbeats anyway? The only kind of action we see around here is mics and badges trying to catch a promotion or their next paycheck.â Iâm looking at dadâs chair again and the TV, turned off, and Jag not saying anything is making the house so quiet I donât recognize it as my house anymore. The TV should be blaring with sirens from Cops or game show ringers or obnoxious ads trying to sell my dad depression, death, or an erection on repeat. Sometimes, the ads got so daring, they tried to sell all three at the same time.
I bring a cigarette to my lips and lean back, bouncing. My head touches the wall behind me. My eyes close and Iâm eight again, looking at his body in the chair with the phone pressed to my ear and the tears blurring my vision being the only things trying to take the image of a dead asshole away.
My headâs throbbing and I feel it painfully teasing the tips of my fingers, adding to the trembling shakes Iâve had since I stepped back into this house.
Anger left behind by my dad makes the air thick. It ricochets off the tin panel walls pretending to be made out of wood with paint. Itâs not like I didnât feel it before; my dadâs seething burned through his chair, left prints on everything he touched, and amplified every sound I made behind my closed bedroom door. Negativity fills my neighborhood like someone playing a stereo too loud. Itâs a constant block party where the neighbors are spectators to the private dances of the ruined lives that stain this city. Locals look the other way while tourists take pictures for macabre websites made famous by the tragic existences of others.
Funny how people only care ten years down the line when itâs all over and thereâs nothing anyone can do to fix the destruction wrought.
Jag runs a hand through his hair. A sigh. He looks back out the window. Iâd say heâs checking on his car, but heâs probably looking for badges. He turns back around, grabs the box of cigarettes off the table, and slides it into his pocket. The cigarette he already has hangs from his mouth. He plucks it out. âYou pack a bag?â He glances at me, then the window. âIâm tired of being here.â
âThatâs it, then?â I say.
âIâm tired of being here, Joey. It smells like someone diedââ
âBecause someone did, then his corpse rotted in a chair for fifteen fucking years!â
âYouâve got to be kidding me.â Jag tosses his cigarette into the tray on the table. âThis is the biggest cope Iâve ever heard.â He rubs his face. âYour friendâs a killer, youâre implicated, and reasonably, you lost your shit at someone who actually deserved it, but thatâs all thatâs going on here.â
Waylandâs out of his chair again. Fast. Iâve never seen him move so quickly. Eyes on Jag, he draws his fist back and throws a punch into Jagâs face. It lands. Jag grabs Wayland by the arm and pulls him into the fist heâs got up. The blowâs powerful enough to knock Wayland back. Jag hits him again, pushing him off his feet. Waylandâs on his knees, grabbing at Jagâs legs with both hands. Jag hits Wayland in the head again, grabs his shoulders, and presses him into the ground. He turns Wayland over while he pulls one of Waylandâs armâs behind his back. Wayland sneering, âGet off!â while Jag thrusts him harder into the ground every time he makes a noise.
âI warned you, Cross,â Jag says. âNow back the fuck off.â After securing one of Waylandâs arms, Jag grabs the other. âCall the badges, Joey.â
âIâm not a narc, Jay,â I say.
âYouâd let your bestie kill me? Is that where weâre at?â
âYouâre being over-dramaticââ
âHeâs already killed a guy!â
âThe circumstances were different.â I grab my cigarette out of the ash tray and bring it to my lips. I donât get anything from it; I need to light it again for that, so I toss it back into the tray.
Wayland struggles. Jag pushes him into the ground harder and harder until he growls and swears and doesnât sound like Wayland anymore.
âGrab your shit, weâre leaving,â Jag says.
My entire bodyâs tense and the house looks too dark suddenly. Itâs not the right time for this kind of shade, but it creates the temptation to hurt because thisâll keep it hidden from everyone else. I blink a couple of times, hoping the room brightens. It doesnât. My anger spikes erratically until all I can think about is grabbing whateverâs in armâs reach and throwing it and itâs making me think too much of dad. Glass cracks, then a crash; my hand stings; Jag says, âHoly shit, Joeyââ while Waylandâs pushing against Jag saying, âJo!â
Blood runs down my fingers. A small spot of red dots my thighs where some of the bloodâs dripped down the fresh cuts in my hand. My beer bottleâs broken to pieces, some sit in my lap, some around my feet. Thereâs a release of the overpowering emotion inside of me that comes out in something like a laugh and a sigh and Iâm saying, âIâm fine, Iâm fine,â while getting up and using my body to hide my hand from Jag.
I grab the medical box from under the sink and put a couple of bandages over the cuts and say, âIâma go grab my shit. Thatâs what you wanted, right?â without turning around.
Jag says, âYou want help?â and I say, âNot from you,â with a snort and a laugh. I stop halfway to my room. The fingers on my unbandaged hand slide along the wall. I glance over my shoulder. âWayland, wanna help?â I remain still, in place, eyes on Jag more than Wayland like Iâve got command and the stare will make him let Wayland go. Jag doesnât change position. Wayland pushes into Jagâs grip, his knees trying to give him some kind of edge. Jag thrusts him against the floor again. âJag. Let him go.â
Jag keeps Wayland down while he locks eyes with me. Heâs got something to say, but heâs not saying it.
I come back down the hall slowly, arms crossed, lips pursed. I shake my head trying to silence the calls for violence rattling inside it. âJag, please. Iâm trying to help him,â I say.
âYeah⌠Thatâs a crime,â Jag says.
âGive us a bit to figure this out⌠Please?â
Jag stands up fully before loosening his grip on Wayland.
âThanks,â I say. I put my hands out to help Wayland up. He takes them. I donât let go and walk backwards, tugging him with me. âWe wonât be long, âkay?â Wayland and I are halfway down the hall when Iâm letting go of one of his hands. Before weâre at my room, I hear Jag swearing under his breath as he pops the cap off another beer. The pizza box opens, then closes. I close my bedroom door behind Wayland.
Take a breath.
Nothing about right now feels normal and Iâm cussing at myself for what just happened, what I couldâve done differently, did I piss off Jag, and how the hell do I get him to understand things arenât as simple as he thinks they are? What if he changes his mind and heâs not out there anymore once Iâve got a bag together? The only bag I have is the backpack Iâve had since first grade. I grab it from the back of my closet and toss it onto the bed. The silence is bugging me. I go to the small radio clock at my bedside and flip it on, letting the racket of rock fill my room. My hips swing as I move; Iâm taking more steps than I need to, making them smaller and faster. I rip a pair of jeans off a hanger, grab another two from the floor, and put them all in the bag. My drawers have unfolded t-shirts and underwear. My hoodieâs on the floor.
Waylandâs still standing at the bedroom door, back against the wall, fingers now in his pockets, though heâs watching everything I do.
I cross the room like Iâm going for something, but I donât know what Iâm looking for anymore, I just need to be moving. I get to the far side of the room, turn around, catch Wayland again, laugh. âYou know you can come in, right?â
âSorryâItâs different this time.â Wayland takes one step in, but stops himself, then presses his back into the door again. The door clicks, hitting the frame, latch broken and loose from when dad beat it down like half a week ago.
âDadâs not here to get mad.â I laugh.
Wayland shakes his head. âI donât care about your dad.â
âDonât worry about Jay. Heâs been rough with you, but⌠heâs not a bad guy, okay?â
âRight.â Wayland exhales hard.
I turn around to look at him. His headâs down; heâs not wearing his glasses. I donât think Iâve seen him wearing them since he first went missing. His clothes are filthy. Smelly, blood-stained, and caked in dried mud. âWe should get you something else to wear. My dadâs clothes might be kinda weird on you, but at least itâs better than that.â I nod toward him.
âOkay,â Wayland says.
I smile. He weakly smiles back. I go back to my bag, take the clothes out, and put them back in. I donât know what Iâm doing but finding an excuse to move. I zip the bag closed. My fingers curl around the shoulder straps. My chest is tight, so I exhale. âYou know⌠even with him gone, I still feel everything. Like⌠his hands are around my throat or my backâs against the wall and heâs slamming me into something again, but itâs not even bad like it was. Itâs more like Iâm craving the fight because I want to beat the shit out of him again. You know that feeling?â My eyes burn, go blurry, but stay dry. I wipe them and chuckle. It hurts.
âI donât like it, Jo.â
I turn back to Wayland and heâs looking at me.
âI want to go back; I want another chance to get it right.â
âWe got another chance, Way.â
âThatâs not what it feels like.â
Iâm standing in front of Wayland. My hands are on both sides of his face. Iâm looking into his eyes, stroking his jaw with my thumbs. Red, already swelling from where Jag hit him. Rabid energy goes through my skin where we touch, Iâm not sure what it is, but something from him hits me like getting drunk on the hardest liquor Iâve had. âWeâll figure it out, okay? Whatever we need to do to make it work, weâll do it.â
Wayland leans forward. His stance turns him into a tower, making him feel more like Jag than Wayland as he cranes his neck. One of his handâs is on my hip, the other cups my jaw. I step back.
Wayland grabs my hand to stop me from pulling away. âWhat if we canât?â His grip tightens. His gaze grabs mine again; itâs unlike the souls in Mortem. Though glossy, his face doesnât look empty. Everyone in the bar down there had checked out, but thereâs a feeling when looking at Wayland like heâs too aware. Fear, anger, rage, passion, fire. Is that what I look like to him? âJo⌠Iâve killed people,â he whispers.
I breathe out hard. A flat laugh carries. Itâs kind of alarming how little I care about the death or the confession. âThat guy at Leakin had it coming, Wayââ
âIt wasnât just that guyâŚâ
âWhat?â I laugh the word.
âThere were more,â Wayland says, still soft, still looking worried.
âHow many?â
âI donât know. Five, six maybe? Some of itâs too blurry. JoâI just know that when I came back, I found the guy that killed me. I had to and then there was the one that attacked you and then there were those people at Armistead who got in the wayââ
âThe couple?â
âYeah.â Waylandâs almost panting. His angerâs not like mine. A slow boil thatâs got him trembling as he tries to contain himself while mine leaks out constantly in movements I canât keep to myself. Swaying, bouncing, punching, shuffling, anything that keeps me going. âI saw you at the fort by yourself. I was coming to you, but then those people came out of nowhere and I couldnât stop blaming them for getting in the way. Something else again and they didnât want me to see you. They were working against me, Jo. But then after they were gone⌠IâŚâ He looks down at his hands. Theyâre discolored. Paler skin from death brings out the dirt and grime and blood trapped under his nails from every encounter he hasnât been able to scrub off. I donât know if thereâs a way to ever fully scrub off someone else. The dark circles under his eyes are darker than they should be, looking like he hasnât slept in years. âAfter I did that, I couldnât see you. I was messy again and I couldnât let you see me looking like that.â
âItâs kinda funny now how much I donât careâŚâ I say.
âYou did back then. I heard you when you asked if I put the body in my car.â
âDid I?â
âYeah.â
I remember it; I remember walking around Armistead, calling for Wayland, hoping he was there so I could prove he did nothing wrong. With everything I know now, I should feel bad or scared or guilty or something, but thereâs a numbness inside like when I was at Lodgings in Mortem. Somethingâs wrong with me, but Iâm not even bothered enough by it to care. People are little more than annoying ideas and dead people are annoying ideas I donât have to think about anymore. Iâve made light of death for so long. There was never any hope to leave, so the best I could do was laugh. It had to be a joke when all I did at night was hope to stop existing so I wouldnât have to suffer anymore.
A week ago I opened the trunk of Waylandâs car and got sick at the sight of a body, but I donât think Iâd do the same if it happened today.
âDonât worry about them, Way,â I say. âAny of them. They all deserved what they got.â
âEven the couple?â Wayland releases my hand.
âVirginians get what they get when they come to Maryland.â I shrug. âShouldnâtâve come to Bodymore if they didnât have a death wish. So⌠Donât worry about it, okay?â I wait until Wayland gives me a response, itâs just a nod, but itâs enough, then Iâm back at the bed, unzipping the backpack again, forgetting whatâs inside. I count the clothing and close it again before tossing it over my shoulder. âI need you to be honest with me though, Way.â
âWhat?â he says.
âHave you everâŚâ My chest tightens. Itâs hard to exhale. Itâs hard to talk. âIf you ever think about killing Jag, you need to tell me, okay?â
âOh.â
âI know what the impulses are like. I couldnât stop myself around my dad. So, if youâve got a problem with Jay, tell me and weâll figure it out.â
Wayland shakes his head rapidly. âI donâtââ His voice cracks. âI donât have a problem with him.â
âYouâll tell me if something happens?â
âYeah. Of course.â
âGood.â Iâm reaching for my cigarettes only to realize I left them on the kitchen counter. I stuff my hands into my pockets instead. They rapidly tap against my thighs in the little space. I look around the room one more time. Thereâs a hole in the wall beside the window from when I was sixteen and my dad tossed me against it then tried to punch me. I never fixed the hole; I never wanted to. It was supposed to be my excuse to get the hell out before he could do it again, but when I realized I couldnât leave, it became a reminder to lock the door and keep myself ready whenever he came down the hall, even if it only sounded like he was going for a piss.
A breath comes out like a laugh. I push my bangs back. I run my fingers gingerly along my forearms, tracing the scars left behind from falling, from dad, from things I did to myself. Even though I spent the last hour trying to prove to Jag Iâm real and this is happening, part of me still feels like Iâm dreaming, Iâm not really there, and Iâll wake up any minute now. I walk over to my nightstand and push the lamp off it.
âWhatâd you do that for?â Wayland says.
âTo prove weâre still here.â I pat Wayland on the shoulder and smile. He smiles back, still small, but better than the last one. He steps away from the door and lets me open it. We leave the bedroom, but I pull Wayland by the arm into my dadâs room next. I grab a pair of pants and the plainest sweater I can find in his closet. Neither look like theyâd fit my dad right if heâd tried to put them on; probably why I donât really recognize them. I canât remember the last time he put on something other than sweats and a t-shirt. âI know itâs not exactly your style and it kinda smells, but at least youâll get by without getting weird looks. Weâll wait for you out there, yeah?â
Wayland looks at the clothing Iâm holding. His hands tremble a little as he reaches for my arm. âJo, IâŚâ He takes a step closer. His hand touches my arm, but then drops to the top of the clothing. âThanks.â
âAny time, Way.â I pat his arm again as I walk by. I turn on my heels to step back, watching Wayland. He watches me back until I go out the door, closing it behind me.
In the kitchen, Jagâs eaten half a slice of pizza, but thereâs another empty bottle on the counter and another butt in the ashtray while heâs smoking a new cigarette. The broken glass from my bottle isnât on the floor, table, or chair.
âYou ready to go?â I close the pizza box and slide it toward me.
âWhatâs happening with your boyfriend?â Jag nods toward the hall.
âStop being a jackass, Jay,â I say.
âIâm only picking up what youâre putting out,â he says.
âIâm sorry,â I donât mean to growl. I lick my lips, eyes turn to the kitchen window, face hot. Thereâs not much in the window but the light makes an outline of my head like Iâm a translucent ghoul with dark holes in the middle of my face. My footâs tapping, my heart wonât stop throwing itself all around my chest and I donât remember feeling like this five minutes ago. âSorry, Jay. No matter what it sounds like, I mean it. Iâm just notâFeeling good right now.â
Jag takes a deep breath. His voice comes out, then stops. Wayland comes down the hall. My dadâs clothes donât fit right like I expected, but theyâre not bad. Baggy slacks held up by a belt bunch around his feet, the sweater also hangs around his stomach where thereâs too much fabric from accommodating the gut my dad got from drinking. His eyes flicker to where Waylandâs still standing in the hall, stiff. âYou got a ride, champ?â Jag says to Wayland.
âI figured we could drop him off on the way to your place,â I say.
âHell. No,â Jag says. âHeâs tried to off me, like, three times already, Joey. Youâre insane if you think Iâm getting back in the car with him.â
âI thought weâd already established Iâm probably insane.â My eyes roll.
âAnd you want to drop him at home?â Jag grunts. âWhat if he kills his family?â
âIâm not talking about this with you, Jag.â I grab my skateboard and Iâm walking out the door now, going down the steps. I have to keep moving or Iâm going to want to break something again. The desire keeps coming back strong. The voices, the images, the feeling of adrenaline like shooting up, and now Jagâs bloody face is getting into my head, scaring the shit out of me. I look down at my hands, my own blood coloring the curves of my fingerprints. The voice in my headâs says do it again, do it again and break âem open!
I shake my head while I walk, almost stepping off the side of the wooden stairs. Instead, I trip the rest of the way down. Not far from the bottom of the steps, a big, black raven sits on the walkway halfway between the stairs and the driveway. Its glossy eyes lift, look at me, then past me. Thereâs another one closer to the road between me and my neighborâs house. Itâs staring into my door too. âYou should get going, Val. Donât wanna miss a meal, do you?â I say, walking toward the bird.
Its wings spread; it flies back, but only by a couple of feet to land in the neighborâs yard.
âYou talking to birds now?â Jag says.
âThey listen a lot more than you think.â I stop when I reach Jagâs car. The passenger doorâs unlocked. I toss my skateboard into the backseat. My bag goes next. Then, door closed, my ass presses into the window. I cross my arms. Check on the ravens. Theyâre staring at Jag. I hold my breath, wait for a sound, a caw, a car, something that might make the ravens break attention, but nothing grabs them. Theyâre tracking him. I walk back across the yard, take Jagâs hand, and pull him forward, still checking on the ravens. I donât expect him to come with me so easily, but he does, glancing over his shoulder for a second to find Wayland in the trailer door. He turns, stepping sideways to keep an eye on him too.
âWeâre not that organized, Jay,â I say.
âIâm not worried about you like that,â Jag says.
I squeeze Jagâs hands. âYou ready to go, Way?â I say.
Jag shakes his head. âNo.â He takes his hands from mine.
I go back to the stairs; Waylandâs still standing in my trailerâs doorway, staring at something behind me. I follow him. It looks like heâs watching Jag, the same way the birds are. Close, sharp, too focused. âWay?â I say.
Wayland shakes his head like heâs snapping out of something. âIâm not going with you,â he says.
âWhat?â I look back at Jag.
Jag shrugs, then heâs opening the trunk to set the pizza down and climbing into the driverâs seat of his Mustang. I wait until the car door closes, acting like it gives us some kind of privacy.
âWhat do you mean youâre not coming? Weâre just dropping you off,â I say. âWhat are you gonna do?â
âIâm going to figure it out,â Wayland says.
âFigure what out?â
âHow to get where I need to go.â Thereâs pain in his voice. It cracks a little, but heâs stiff, like heâs trying to hide it. He rubs the side of his head, closes his eyes, covers his face, and turns away.
âWhere are you gonna go?â
âHome. Like you said. I havenât talked to my parents in a while and I should at least let them know whatâs going on.â
âYou sure?â My chest tightens.
âI just mean that Iâm here. I shouldnât have let them worry so long.â
âThereâre no instructions on this. They canât hold it against you.â
âI shouldâve done better, though.â
Again, Waylandâs not looking at me. I cross the yard, stop halfway. Look back at the Mustang. Jagâs headâs down, maybe looking at his phone, pretending heâs not watching. I just hope heâs not seeing what I see. Waylandâs got a look that feels familiar, but foreign, a look like I saw in my dad and the Big Guy who killed me and every angry banger Iâve seen running around this city, thirsting for something they feel owed. Itâs not fair to say bangerâItâs not just them looking to rob everyone else of everything they can, looking for money and advancement and happiness. Sometimes, youâd think the miserable believe they can beat joy out of peopleâLike itâs being hoarded in someoneâs pocket, and the only reason youâre miserable is because someone stole it from you first. Thereâs a finite amount of happiness in the world, right? So, maybe some gotta be miserable for others to not be.
âYou sure youâre gonna be okay?â I say.
Wayland takes the last step down, but heâs still not looking at me. He breathes out hard through his teeth, his fingers curl, even without Jag near, his hands tremble. âYeah. I have to be.â
I close the space between us. My arms are around him and I pull him toward me. He doesnât wait to do the same. Heâs so much sturdier than I remember him being. âYouâre not alone in this, Wayland.â
âAre you gonna stay with me?â Wayland says.
My front door goes out of focus. My nose is in Waylandâs shoulder. He smells like my dad, my house, and sulfur. Thereâs barely any sense of himself. My fingers curl in his shirt. âI canât. I have to talk to Jag.â
âI know.â Wayland letâs go of me first.
I follow, putting a space between us. I grab out my phone and look over the screen like Iâm expecting something to be there. âText me,â I say.
âI will,â Wayland says.
âIâll always answer, okay?â
âYeah.â Wayland smiles, but it doesnât last.
My walk to Jagâs car is slow, half backwards, watching Wayland while I open the passenger door. He doesnât move, even when Iâm in the car, even when the door shuts, even when Jag reaches for the key hanging from the ignition.
âYou good?â Jag says. His phoneâs sitting in the cupholder with his box of cigarettes and his lighter.
I take a breath, using it to give me time to come up with an answer or at least enough enthusiasm to sound convincing when I say, âYeah,â but my voice still shakes. I glance in the side mirror. Wayland fills the frame while âObjects May Be Closer Than They Appearâ lies to me at the bottom.
The Mustang roars. Waylandâs getting smaller and Iâve become my mom, leaving someone I told myself Iâd never leave at my shitty trailer, telling him to figure it out on his own. I push my fingers hard against my eyes, keep wiping, smudging the black so my eyelinerâs probably everywhere, but at least thatâs all thatâs on my face. Jag glances sidelong and says, âWipe your face. You look like trash,â and I say, âYeah? Whatâs new about that?â
Iâve got my window rolled down; the air blowing in doesnât feel as cold as it should and the heaterâs only on mild, but itâs burning my skin where it touches. The burn isnât uncomfortable though. Jag got the radio on and heâs trying not to make conversation which works for me because I donât want to talk. I want to pretend everythingâs fine, heâs satisfied, and since no oneâs asking any questions, thereâs nothing to explain. We pass by an abandoned office store; the wall outside says DONâT BE ALONE and brick townhouses just a street over say WANT, WANT, WANT, WANT in different colors, colliding off the wall onto the concrete and go from looking like paint to chalk to washing down the drain in the street. The smell of pizza makes its way out of the trunk, somehow overpowering the cigarette Jag lit. I hope thereâs beer back at his place.
My fingers tap my thigh until Iâm in my pocket and getting out my phone and turning it over in my hands, trying not to message Wayland first, because heâs driving or heâs being picked up by his parents or heâs walking somewhere and he needs to be alert because of what happened last time. But then I message him anyway.
JOEY Everythingâs gonna be fine.
Itâs minutes before he sends anything back and even then, he only says, âOK.â
I tap my phone to my thigh a couple more times.
New message.
JOEY Trust me?
Minutes later, he says, âOK,â again.
I crank the radio up, but itâs not loud enough since Jag cranks it up after me. My footâs tapping to the music, and I drop my phone on the floor so I canât reach it as easily as before. My hand finds Jagâs thigh because holding anything is better than holding onto that goddamn phone right now and it seems right. I close my eyes, trying to focus on anything but the seething anger and fear inside of me trying to get out.
Jagâs saying my name before I realize weâre at his apartment. I grab my bag and skateboard from the backseat, heâs got the pizza and asks if I need help carrying anything. I say, âNah. Youâve got your hands full already with me, yeah?â I smile; itâs weak, but he smiles back.
The hall on his floor is quiet and it smells like someoneâs making spaghetti while someone else burnt popcorn sometime last week. The scent of popcorn sticks around, burnt or not. Dad hated it. âMelted butter smells like piss,â heâd say, but if that was true, then he never wouldâve smelled me making popcorn, right?
In Jagâs apartment, he sets the pizza down in the kitchen, I set my skateboard against the wall by the door. My bag falls off my shoulders near that. I canât give a fuck about it. Jagâs keys hit the counter with a jingle. The TV comes on, but the soundâs low.
Everything feels heavy and jittery at the same time. Lit and worn out. Restless and exhausted, I donât want to move, but panic strikes when Iâm standing still. Itâs nothing new, but all I want is to feel something to wear me down until I canât move or think or feel anymore.
Iâm gaining on Jag until Iâm running into him and heâs stepping back, looking down at me. My hands go up his chest while I say, âHey, Jay?â
âHm?â He grabs my hips.
âDo you think itâd be weird if we fucked right now?â My hands are around his neck, drawing me to him.
âWhy would it be weird?â Jagâs still stepping back, guiding us to his room. He leans down, bringing his lips close to mine. His hands slide around my hips. He unhooks my belt and tugs the ends free.
I pull at his shirt. He grabs at mine and our clothing hits the floor. Jag turns us around so he can push me onto the bed and then heâs on top of me. His lips are hot against my skin and Iâve never felt so hungry for his body before. Now, heâs all I can think about.
The balance between his body and the bed keeps me from floating away, and the screaming in my head finds a quiet place to fuck off to so all I can focus on is feeling Jag. His smell, his voice muttering against my skin. The way I say his name feels different and I donât get why until weâre done and his armâs hanging over me, holding me close, forming me to the contours of his body. At that moment, I'm not thinking about what time it is or how Iâm gonna sneak into the house or will I wake my dad up, and what commercial break will be loud enough to cover me closing the door without drawing his attention. Thereâs no rush to get out of here because thereâs no one at home I have to take care of.
I close my eyes to stop the tears from forming. I bring Jagâs arm to my mouth so my lips can trail along his skin, to his wrist, then the back of his hand. The words I want to say scare the hell out of me. I never liked hearing them because they never felt real, like anything more than a saying that costs 15 cents to make, but $13.99 to pass on through a plastic, preprinted card that a million other people have given to someone else.
No one ever said you had to be real, just believable. Even the afterlife works like that.
Heat moves along my neck. A trail from Jagâs lips and he says, âIâm glad youâre here, Joey,â and Iâm thinking me too, but I canât say it; Iâll look like an idiot when he changes his mind, so instead, I close my eyes, let my hand go limp, and pretend I fell asleep already so I donât have to say anything back.
This review contains some mild series spoilers.
Plead More, Bodymore is the second in a series by Ian Kirkpatrick. Following Bleed More, Bodymore this latest instalment follows the main character Joey as she deals with all the drama that comes with being dead. After dying and making a deal with Charon (the ferryman of souls across the Styx) that she will gather escaped souls to take to judgment, Joey manages to avoid judgment herself. When Joey discovers a local medium who may be able to help her and her best friend Wayland to gain some control over their deaths, she jumps at the chance.
Plead More, Bodymore is a quick and interesting read, perfect for horror lovers. You'll definitely need to read the first in the series to understand what's going on. Plead More, Bodymore starts right where Bleed More, Bodymore ended, and you're not brought up to speed at any point in the second story.
Joey is a character its hard to feel any sort of connection with. I think for me she came across as too much of an 'I'm not like other girls' type character, and overall it made her fall flat for me. Rather than being an individual or seeming like a real person, it felt like her persona was simply 'one-of-the-guys' without much else to back it up. I do still think she's an interesting character to follow, however, even if it is more to do with what happens to her and the people she is surrounded with as opposed to because of any intrigue in her characterisation.
I loved the premise of the story, and the exploration of a potential afterlife. I was a tad disappointed that a major plot point in the first book was almost completely ignored in the second, though. I thought the idea of Joey and Wayland collecting souls for Charon would be interesting, but in Plead More, Bodymore this deal they made with him seems to be mostly forgotten.
Plead More, Bodymore is a unique and dark story, and one it's very easy to get lost in, but also one I think leaves you wanting more. Overall this is a good read for anyone who wants a quick and simple horror series to get stuck into.