June 11, 2000
I was just returning a movie. That was the plan, anyway.
Last night, I rented Fight Club and watched it alone in my room, sweating through the sheets. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe something fun, something cool. But the whole thing left me queasy. Like I’d been let in on a secret I didn’t want to know.
Before I get to the worst part, you need some context. We have three dogs, chewers, all of them, and one of them recently had puppies. Five little explorers, always squeezing under the car for shade, ignoring every attempt to keep them out. So, before I go anywhere, I always check.
It was dark. I thought I had.
Then, thud.
A sickening, solid thing that jolted through the car, through my bones.
I slammed the brakes, my stomach flipping inside out. The headlights cut across the gravel driveway, and there it was. The black-and-white one. Bleeding, yelping, its cries sharp and thin.
For a second, I thought about getting back in the car. Just driving away. Pretending it hadn’t happened.
But it had.
And there was only one thing to do.
I went into the house and got the pistol.
My hands shook so badly I could barely cock it. My stomach churned with something hot and sickly. When I pulled the trigger, the sound cracked through the night, tore straight through me.
Then, silence.
A silence so loud it swallowed everything.
I grabbed a shovel from the shed and buried it out by the barn, the red clay sticking to the blade, clumping under my nails. I smelled like dirt and metal. I smelled like guilt.
I got in the car and drove to Bowling Green. Not just because I needed to return the movie; I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I just needed to move, to outrun the house, the yard, the barn, the whole goddamn thing. The puppy’s final whimper looped in my head, over and over, like a song stuck on the worst part.
I needed something warm. Something normal. But Java House was closed. Barnes & Noble, too.
So I pulled into a gas station, its flickering neon sign buzzing like a dying fly. Inside, the coffee machine spat out something that smelled burnt and fake, but I drank it anyway. I needed something to hold.
I turned down the next aisle, and there she was.
Christa. With some guy.
My brain jammed, puppy, pistol, Christa, smiling like nothing had changed, like I wasn’t half out of my mind.
Of course, she was with a guy. She was always with guys. Even though we both knew better.
Like I knew the mirror lied. Like I knew I’d never fit in this town. Like I knew that puppy wasn’t getting back up.
She chatted, happy to see me, like I wasn’t standing there barely breathing. I nodded, said something automatic. The words felt thin, like listening through a broken speaker.
I left. Drove home. But now, when I closed my eyes, it wasn’t the puppy I saw dying.
It was me.
And Christa was holding the gun.
At least, that’s how it felt. Like I was the one bleeding out, trapped in a body that never felt right, a body I couldn’t just leave behind. The muzzle might as well have been pressed against my temple each time the mirror lied about who I was. Each time I wanted to scream that I didn’t fit here, or anywhere.
I don’t know why I still think about the gas station coffee. Maybe because it tasted the same way that night felt, thin, burnt, and not nearly strong enough.
I feel calm now only because I know I have to leave.
Or this place, and this skin, will swallow me whole.
Maybe I finally will.
If not, I keep wondering whether that pistol has a bullet meant for me, too.
I don’t check the chamber.
But I think about it.