Come To Me (Owned 3)

I tilted my head more, scrutinizing. “Vic Wall” was etched in big, bold letters. My name taunted me from the grave.

“We might have to live with a goddamn chink because your cunt is broken, but don’t mean I have to call him that. He’s Vic. It’s a good, strong American name.”

I shook my head at the memory and turned to walk away. There was no way for any of them to know I wasn’t born “Vic.” And I guess I’d never thought about who I would die as until it was glaring at me, etched in granite.

It didn’t matter, either way.

My feet sunk into the wet grass as I walked farther from my grave. Seeing my headstone was a risk not worth taking, but I thought seeing my etched name might cement my determination. The funeral had made me waver and question what I’d done. They even had the honor guard. It was more than I expected…more than I deserved.

I remembered when the man had opened his book, Lenny kept her eyes up. When Lissie had gently touched her, trying to get her attention, she still kept her eyes on the sky. Her lips started to move, but it was impossible to hear what she was saying from where I stood. By the way the preacher’s eyes had narrowed with contempt, it wasn’t good.

Eyes still on the heavens, Lenny kept speaking. Everyone stopped to watch her. She took a step toward the casket, hovering precariously over the empty grave. Tension thicker than the misty air clogged their throats as they watched her take another step toward the grave. Eli reached out toward her but she shook him off and fell to the ground, the only evidence of sobs her heavy shaking. They all watched like statues stuck in time.

The memory of Lennox falling to the ground, her black skirt flung out around her body gathering mud, would be carved into my mind more than any headstone. Her black dress had spilled around her body like a shadow. She gathered mud and wetness, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Nothing seemed to bother her and yet everything seemed torture. The gentle caress of a friend. The reassuring word from a sister. It all seemed crucifixion. When she’d fallen, I’d reached my hand out, grasping at raindrops.

Eventually Lenny had stood and flung an angry hand at the preacher. The preacher opened his book and continued. No one watched him. They all watched her. They watched her unshed tears. They studied the rips in her skirt. They studied the scrapes on her knees. And they studied the tension in her limbs ready to uncoil.

Slowly the funeral ended. The preacher closed his book and motioned for the guard. As they raised their guns and the casket lowered, Lenny screamed. The sound was so loud it could be heard even behind the trees, where I sat watching as only a ghost could. Still, in the end, my funeral was quiet and understated.

Except for one thing.

Lennox.

Her red hair was ragged and clung to her skin. Her eyes bloodshot. Her lips cracked. When her screaming ceased, she’d flung herself on the casket. In that moment I wanted to fling myself too. I wanted to fling every goddamn thing that I’d done and go to her.

Luckily I was too far away. I’d kept myself hidden between trees, cloaked under dark fabric. Grace and Eli had pulled Lenny off, and Lissie and Zoe kept her restrained. The preacher gave Lennox one last scornful look.

From behind the trees I’d watched. I’d watched as my friends struggled to hold my lover against falling back to my casket. I’d watched the love of my life break into pieces over and over again. My heels found the soft earth so I didn’t run up and grab her. I wanted to run up, hug her, comfort her, and let her know everything was going to be okay.

It was a lie, of course.

Nothing would ever be okay again, but at least they would be safe.

Keeping a low profile two cars back, I followed the group. I hadn’t gone to my birth mother’s funeral, not that it would have been anything like mine. Child services asked if I wanted to go, but I said no. It was the first time I’d ever asserted myself, the first time I’d ever let on that something was wrong with the way we had lived.

Years later I still hadn’t visited her gravesite. She’d pushed me out her cunt and that was the end of that. I was sent to live with the Walls, who were now also dead. Not many get to say they were lucky enough to be orphaned twice in their life.

Now I was dead.

You could say my funeral began the day I was plucked from my unit in Afghanistan. Or I could go back further, to my junkie mother who forced me into foster care the day she overdosed and left me to die…which then forced me to the Walls, a lovely abusive couple that then forced me out on my own at the ripe age of seventeen. Either way, my funeral song was being written long before the fire.

It was past the time to point fingers though. I was dead and buried, and the only reason I was sticking around was to make sure the dirt didn’t get kicked up. It was nearly impossible to get information, though. I couldn’t use any of the channels I’d used before without alerting someone I was still alive. All my old aliases, codes, and usual backdoors had died with Vic Wall.

“Christ on a motherfucking Sunday cracker Vic.” Seven lit a cigarette while the fire blazed around us. Fifteen minutes had passed since Lenny left. I was beginning to accept my end, then that asshole showed up.

“You said to make it look real,” I coughed, blood smearing across my hand.

“Well, let’s go get you that Oscar.” Seven bent down and with a great heave, pushed aside the beam that kept me pinned. He stuck out his hand. I didn’t have time to wonder what it meant to lean on a Boogieman, because without him I would have burned, and so would my loved ones.

Parking my stolen car, I watched the group walk into a bar. Lenny was already leaning on Zoe. Either she was already drunk or she was hurting too badly. Maybe both. And, yeah, it killed that I couldn’t know which.

Seven had said I was going to need his help, but I hadn’t realized how much. About an hour after I received the black card, Seven sent me a message. All it read was, “Make it look real and your ass might still get saved. PS: Put some Cocoroons in the pantry.”

It was just as vague and infuriating as the man, but it gave me a small sliver of hope. There was no plan attached to the message, so I continued with my own.

When I’d first talked to Seven and he hinted he would help me out of my shit, I never attached much hope to it. That would have been like being low on rent and buying a lottery ticket. At the time, I wasn’t just behind on payments, my loans were defaulting and the sharks were swimming at my heels. Then Seven came down at hour twelve like some dark angel.

Without Seven I would have been dead and, yeah, maybe that would have been better. Still, it wasn’t my family’s fault they’d hitched their wagon to a broken horse. I was back from the dead now, and I was going to fix my fucking mistakes.