Vandal (Ashes & Embers 2)

An icy chill spreads through my veins as I stare at the date, and pieces of information slowly come back to me about the accident. I remember Lukas saying the other driver was young, and his wife was in the car and got banged up pretty good.

I’m pretty damn sure I’m standing on the grave of another person I may have killed. Just fucking great.

I take the long way home on my bike to try to clear my head of all the thoughts that are jangling around. I never asked for any details about the passengers in the other car, and I’m not even sure if their names were ever mentioned. It was hard enough to deal with the death of Katie, but now, seeing the other side of the accident is even more of a mind-fuck. I can’t get that girl’s wailing cries out of my head.

I get home at dusk, and I’m not in the house for ten minutes when my doorbell rings. I put my drink down and go to the door, not hiding my annoyance as I open it.

“What now?” I demand as Evelyn walks past me, carrying a small pet carrier. I’m utterly confused as I watch her open the little door of the plastic cage.

“What the hell is this?” I ask as she thrusts a small furry animal against my chest.

“It’s a kitten.”

“What the hell is wrong with it?” I hold it away from me a bit and stare at its tiny face. It’s squinting. A lot.

“He’s blind,” she replies simply.

I look closer at the small, silver and white cat. “Blind? It has no fucking eyes, Evie.” I can’t even believe what I’m looking at.

“I know, Vandal. It was tortured as a tiny kitten by some evil teenagers. He’s fine now, but his eyes had to be surgically removed after what was done to him. He’s all healed up now and ready for a home. He’s been in foster care for three months while he healed and learned how to adapt. He’s only about six months old.”

Tortured? Who the fuck tortures a kitten? I instinctively hold it closer to my chest and it begins to purr violently against me.

I stare at Evie, confused. “Why is it here?”

“You’re going to love it. But you’re going to have to actually show it that you love it. And ‘it’ has a name; meet Sterling.”

I shake my head and try to hand the kitten back to her. “No. No, no, and no. I can’t take care of a cat, Ev. I’ve never even owned a cat. Or a dog. Not even a fucking fish, or a plant.”

She flashes a sweet but feisty smile at me. “Well, now you’re the proud owner of a blind cat, and it’s non-negotiable. You need each other. You’re both fucked up. He can eat, drink and use his litter box completely normal. Just put his stuff in a safe place, show him where it all is, and don’t move it.” She stops for a minute and stares at my leg. “Is that blood on your shorts?”

Fuck. I guess I didn’t grab clean shorts when I swapped my jeans for something more comfortable when I got home.

“I cut myself a few days ago,” I answer, not looking at her. I focus on the cat, gently rubbing its head, its purr vibrating against my palm.

“Doing what?”

I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Drop it.” My tone is no longer friendly. She cringes like a good girl and looks away. I can see her struggling with wanting to say something and knowing better than to poke the monster.

I hold the cat closer, who’s rubbing all over my face now, and watch as Evie steps outside the front door and then comes back dragging a large box of cat supplies and leaves it in my foyer.

She looks up at me and gives the cat a quick scratch on the head. “Trust me, Vandal. You’ll thank me for this.”

I gently put the kitten down on the floor and he promptly arches his little back and rubs against my ankles. “I don’t even like you,” I say to Evie. Which is a lie, because I do kinda like her. I’ve slowly gotten used to the fact that even though she can be annoying as hell, she’s a good friend and her heart is in the right place, which is more than I can say about most people.

“I don’t care if you like me or not,” she replies, grinning. “Just like the cat. That’s all. Call or text me if you have any questions. If you have to go away or on tour, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of by either myself, or a pet sitter. Make sure he has food and water all the time and don’t ever let him outside. Okay?”

“Uh … okay?” I can’t believe I’m letting her railroad me into being a pet owner.

“Great. Work your charm, Sterling,” she says to the cat, then turns and leaves me dumbfounded in the kitchen. I run my hands through my long hair and let out a deep breath. I really did not need this shit.

I quickly decide the best thing to do right now is ignore the cat and let it get used to the fact that it’s on its own. Life sucks, even for kittens, apparently. He’ll be safe and fed and that’s obviously better than what he’s used to, so he should just be grateful.

I head back into the living room to resume drinking, and the girl from the cemetery creeps into my mind. I grab my laptop and do a web search for Nick Bennett, his obituary showing up right on the first page of the search results. I sip my Jack Daniels as I scan the obituary for her name. Tabitha. I backspace and search for her name and find her social media page. Evidently, Tabitha’s not big on privacy because her entire profile is wide open for me to see all her status updates, photos, and friends. I hesitate for a moment before clicking on her profile photo, enlarging it to see blond hair tousled around huge, doe-like eyes that a man could easily get lost in. I feel as if those eyes are staring right into mine, and something inside me shifts. In her eyes I see that rare childlike playfulness and sensuality that I’ve been hungering for longer than I can remember, but never opened myself up enough to find. I curse the irony of seeing it in this woman that I have had a hand in destroying. I close the photo and scan down her status updates. The most recent was two weeks ago.

‘I can’t do this. Nothing matters to me anymore. I want to go to sleep forever.’

I nod in agreement at the screen. Yup. Been there. Still there.

Her post has twenty-four likes. Why the fuck would people like that? There’s also a few replies from her friends, saying they’re there for her. I wonder how many of them really are there for her. My guess is not too fucking many.

I scroll down to a post two weeks prior to that.

‘I miss you so much. Life is nothing without you :( ’

And a few days before that.

‘Fuck you, sun. Even you can’t brighten my day. The dark is my friend now.’

And a day before.

‘I am consumed with pain and loneliness. Please don’t call me or tell me things will get better. I died in that car too.’

Yes. Her pain matches mine so perfectly, born together like twins.

And then there is a smattering of pre-tragedy posts.

‘Omfg this cookie is amazing #fatass #yum’

‘Can’t wait for Nick to get home!’

‘WTF why can’t I get pregnant??’

‘Woohoo shopping spree with my bestie!’

‘Where the hell do my socks go? Is there a fucking portal in the washing machine?’

‘Watching Revenge! #TeamAiden’

A foreign smile spreads across my face as I scroll through her silly and mostly random posts. There are a lot of pictures of her, and him, and them together. All smiles. The perfect, good-looking young couple. I click on another album and it’s filled with pictures of butterflies, birds, squirrels, and flowers, and a few of her out in the woods wearing a vintage dress, lying in the leaves, and a few other girls, presumably her friends, in the same setting. It appears to be some kind of themed shoot. Photography and modeling must be some of her hobbies. She has an odd beauty about her that is a mix of cute and sexy with a side of shy innocence. She’s tiny, maybe five feet, judging from the photos. She possesses the look and aura that my dark side craves to have under me but I refuse to let myself give in to. Instead, I stick to the loud, outgoing, trashy girls because they make me feel absolutely nothing.

I check my own social media page and there is the usual stuff

from fans, mostly chicks, a bunch of them wearing the T-shirts that went on sale a few months ago that say “Get Vandalized” on them, the black fabric spread tight across their huge, probably fake, tits. There is nothing about the accident. Sooner or later, someone will start talking about it, or it will be leaked, and I don’t even want to know what I will have to deal with then.