Pointless.
Meaningless.
Hopeless.
Death.
Slowly, the sound of agony, high-pitched and constant, breaks through the fog of silence in the room. It feels like mine. Sharp. Brittle. Unending. Unrelenting.
But it’s coming from under the desk.
I want to go to him. Hold him like a mother. Shush him and tell him it’s going to be all right.
But I can’t.
Because it’s not.
And it never will be again.
“Get up,” I bark, standing from my hiding spot.
Quint’s body is laid out in the middle of the doorway between the lobby and the office, a maroon blanket covering his back and seeping into the carpet all around him.
Lamar sniffles, but then he begins sobbing even louder.
He always does this. He gets in trouble, and then Quint takes the punishment. How many times did Quint get a whooping from their drunk old man for something that Lamar had done, and how many more times did Lamar get in trouble, knowing Quint would show up just in time to take the fall?
Selfish.
Spoiled.
Ungrateful.
Brat.
Stomping over the desk, I pull the chair out even further, prepared to scream at Lamar—to unleash the pain and rage and helplessness and injustice bottled up inside of me—but the boy I find huddled under there, hugging his knees and weeping into his elbows, looks so much like his brother at that age that I slump to the floor and crawl inside with him.
Wrapping my arms around Lamar’s shuddering body, I realize how small he still is. How young.
“Shh,” I whisper, rocking him back and forth. “Shh …”
“I killed him,” Lamar whispers back. “I killed him, Rain.”
“No,” I choke out, his short, unkempt dreadlocks soaking up my tears. “They killed him, baby. They kill everybody. It doesn’t matter what you do.” My voice disappears on a sob as I realize that I was right all along.
None of this matters.
And we’re all gonna die.
Rain
Lamar and I struggle to carry Quint’s body out the heavy wooden door and into the darkened hall as the security guards from the entrance make it to the top of the stairs. I fully expect them to shoot us, and I don’t even care. I’m not leaving Quint here.
“What the hell happened up here?” the male officer asks.
Lamar has his back to them. He’s carrying Quint’s legs, and I have him under the armpits. He’s so heavy. I lift a knee to help support his weight and feel my jeans soak through with blood as soon as it touches his back. Setting his butt down on the floor, I sit with his upper body in my lap and cry.
“Good Lord, Ms. McCartney. When Mr. Jenkins said he shot an intruder, I didn’t realize it was your partner.”
“It was my fault,” Lamar says, sitting across from me, hugging Quint’s shins to his chest. “I shouldn’t have gone in there.” His face collapses into a broken, silent sob.
“Well …”
The two officers look at each other, perplexed.
“You want us to help you carry him out?” the male officer asks.
I nod. The two cops rush over and each take a shoulder. They lift him off of me, and I miss the weight of him as soon as they do. Taking a leg from Lamar, we share a brief, miserable moment before we carry our brother and best friend down the marble steps, right under the watchful, beady eye of Governor Steele and his collection of sponsors.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, the female officer hands Quint off to her partner and runs over to the welcome desk to grab my duffel bag.
I don’t know why, but their kindness makes it hurt even more.
She opens the door for us and walks us down the front steps and into the twilight.
“Where should we take him?” the male officer grunts, shifting Quint’s weight in his arms.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
The sound of anarchy fills the air—motorcycle engines revving, screams, howls, laughter, gunshots.
“How about over there?” his partner suggests, pointing to a dogwood tree in full bloom. “Just until you figure something out.”
I nod and shuffle over to the tree in a daze. We lay Quint down beneath it on a bed of pine needles and dogwood petals, and the lady cop places a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. McCartney.”
“For what it’s worth,” her partner adds, his voice gruff and sincere, “that was a damn good interview.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know if I spoke the words or simply thought them, but the officers walk away.
Now, it’s just me.
And Lamar.
And a sleeping Quint.
At least, that’s what it looks like.
That’s what I want to tell myself.
I don’t know why, but I reach over and gently peel the Caucasian-colored bandage off his neck.
Then, I snort out something that might almost be a laugh if it wasn’t so goddamn painful and ironic.
“His wound is healed.”
Lamar sits with his legs crossed and his face buried in his hands. “It was all for nuthin’,” he mumbles. “Us livin’ in that mall, you takin’ care of him, Wes getting’ arrested … it was all to save Quint, and now …” He shakes his head as his shoulders begin to rise and fall.
“Maybe this was supposed to happen,” I say, rubbing his back like my mom used to rub mine when I was upset. “Maybe it was his destiny.”
I don’t believe a word I’m saying. And neither does Lamar.
“I don’t believe in destiny,” he says. “Look around. It’s all just fuckin’ chaos. It’s just bad shit happening to good people. That’s all life is. I fuckin’ hate it!” he yells on a broken sob.
“Me too.”
“I want my mom.”
“Me too,” I whisper around the swollen lump in my throat.
I wrap my arm around him and pull him close. Quint and Lamar’s mama abandoned them when they were little. Rumor has it that their daddy beat her so bad that, one night, she just upped and left. Never heard from her again. But I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just a story
