Come to Me Quietly (Closer to You #1)(79)
Author: A.L. Jackson

Keeping the gun pointed in Joe’s direction, Jared frantically ransacked the drawers in the kitchen, leaving them hanging wide open when he didn’t find what he was looking for. He groaned in relief when he finally did. The large drawer was crammed full of junk, pens and coupons and random crap. And a small twine of rope.

Jared crossed to the man and edged behind the chair. “Give me your hands.”

Joe hesitated.

“Do it!” Jared yelled, nudging him in the side with the barrel of the gun.

The old man gave in and dropped his arms to his sides. Jared crouched down low and balanced the gun on his thighs. His breaths came all shallow and severe as he began to wrap the rope around Joe’s wrists, securing them tight at the base of the chair.

“Jared, please don’t do this,” he begged.

Sweat beaded on Jared’s upper lip. He swiped the back of his hand over it. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind. He cinched the rope and Joe yelped.

Shit.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jared promised through his agony, f**king hating every second of what he was doing. But there was nothing else he could do.

Jared loosened the binding so at least it wouldn’t rub.

“You know that’s not what I’m concerned about,” Joe said.

Humorless laughter freed itself from Jared’s blackened spirit, from the deepest recess where his corruption lay. “You don’t need to worry about me, old man. I’m going exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Standing, Jared dug the car keys from Joe’s pocket and fled into the garage. He smacked his palm against the garage door opener. The door slowly lifted just as Jared slid into the driver’s seat of the oversized four-door sedan. He tossed his backpack to the passenger’s seat and tucked the gun underneath it.

Nausea slammed him the second he was behind the wheel. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he floundered with the keys. Finally he managed to slip the key into the ignition. He turned it over, threw it in reverse, and gunned the accelerator. He backed out onto the street, shifted into gear. The car swerved as he rammed on the gas.

He just had to get out of this neighborhood. Away from the memories. Away from everything that mattered.

He didn’t want to do this here.

But those memories chased him, tormented him as he aimlessly roamed the streets. Where the f**k was he supposed to go? Scrubbing his hand over his face, Jared tried to wake himself up, to focus, to see through the permanent daze that had taken him hostage.

For hours he drove as the anxiety ratcheted high, lifted, and spun. Paranoia was setting in. Soon they’d come looking for him, and he had to get this done. His eyes traveled the streets, searching for a place to hide, but nothing felt right. A choked cry locked in his throat when he realized he was circling back around to the neighborhood. Fucking drawn. Hysterical laughter rocketed from his mouth. Was this some kind of cruel, sick joke?

He avoided the intersection because he just couldn’t go there. He made a U-turn and then a quick right onto the street bordering the neighborhood. Jared cut left across the street. The car bounced and jerked as he forced it up over the curb, the tires spinning until they found traction on the dirt. The field was vacant, dark. Tall grasses grew up through the middle. The headlights sliced over the field, illuminating the place that had always meant so much to him, where he’d spent his days playing back when he was a child, when things were good and joy wasn’t a vague impression of the past.

He’d loved it here. Now he’d destroy it, like he destroyed everything.

Out in the middle of the field, he killed the engine. It ticked and the fan hummed. Jared flipped off the headlights.

For a few minutes – or maybe hours – he sat in the dark, shaking, rocking.

Thrashing through the anxiety, he groped for the overhead light. A faint glow crept into the car. He just needed one hit and then he could do this. Jared dug in his bag, drained half the bottle of whiskey to get him to the place where he could get up the nerve, swallowed down five pills when that wasn’t enough.

He hated this. Hated it.

The spoon and the needle and the bag.

But it was all he had.

He found his lighter and balled up the tiny piece of cotton between his fingers. Jared swam. His head was spinning, his mind reeling. And everything was so heavy and so light. Warm.

Jared sagged against the seat, limp, and for a few seconds, he let it go.

But it never lasted long, and he was just so tired… but his mind wouldn’t stop working. He could hear his mom crying, f**king begging in the bowels of his brain.

He grabbed the gun from under his bag and rammed it in his mouth. His teeth scraped metal, the sound grinding in his ears and grating through his bones. Sweat coated his forehead, slipped down the back of his neck.

I can do this.

His finger trembled on the trigger.

It hurt. It hurt. And he was so scared.

Jared jerked the gun from his mouth and slammed his head back on the headrest. “Fuck,” he cried.

He lifted it to his temple, forcing his finger back on the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging for her. “Mom… I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.” His hand was shaking. Shaking.

Jared couldn’t f**king stop shaking.

Another handful of pills, the rest of the bottle – numbness and fire and helplessness – it sloshed on his shirt as he drained the last.

He could do this.

But he wanted to see her face one more time.

Numbness weighed him down as he rooted through his bag. He swayed to the left. Shit. Maybe he’d taken too much. But it was okay… it was okay… he could do it. He could do it for her.

He finally found his book in his backpack. Words filled the entirety of the worn journal, his hate and his shame. Snapshots of a perfect life were stowed between the vile pages. He thumbed through to the front, where he kept her picture and lifted it to find the tenderness glowing on her face.

He’d never see her again.

Lifting his lighter, he flicked it and watched as the picture caught fire. She melted before him, disappeared, just like she’d done when he stole her life.

He was just so f**king tired. Tired of it all. Sleep flitted at the edges of his consciousness. He rammed his forehead on the steering wheel, palming the butt of the gun.

He could do this.

First, he wanted to watch it burn. He set the gun on his lap, flicked his lighter, and let the flame leap and dance along the bottom of the journal. He held it in his hand, felt the heat on his face. Felt nothing. Felt it all.