Corrupt (Devil's Night 1)

I charge up to the car, throwing the shovel in the back and grabbing my phone, checking the time.

An hour.

I left her an hour ago.

Climbing in, I start the car and put it in reverse, backing up and turning around. Slamming into first, I peel out of the clearing, down the old dirt road, seeing the cathedral disappear in the darkness in my rearview mirror.

I speed down the highway and through the community gate, turning into Grove Park Lane and racing to the end, where St. Peter’s Cemetery sat.

Rika had dived into the woods, coming into the cemetery through the back, but I just drive in, knowing right where to go.

Her father’s headstone sits not far from my family’s tomb. He could’ve afforded something that grandiose, too, but Schrader Fane wasn’t a pretentious asshole like the men in my family. A simple marker was enough and all he deemed appropriate according to his will.

I drive down the dark, narrow lane, nothing but trees and a sea of gray, black, and white stones to my left and right.

Stopping at the top of a small hill, I park and turn off the car, already spotting what I think is a pair of legs lying on the grass a ways down.

Jesus.

Racing down the grass in between headstones, I see Rika lying over her father’s grave, curled up and tucking her hands into her chest.

I stop and gaze down at her sleeping, for a moment seeing that baby from so long ago.

Kneeling down on one knee, I slide my hands underneath her body and lift her up, so small and light.

She squirms in my arms. “Michael?” she says.

“Shhh,” I soothe. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she protests, reaching up to hook a hand over my shoulder with her eyes still closed.

“Neither do I.”

I spot a stone bench a few yards back up the hill and carry her, guilt racking through me over how cold her skin is.

I shouldn’t have left her.

Sitting down on the bench, I keep her in my lap as she lays her head against my chest, and I hold her close, trying to warm her or do anything to make her feel better.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” I admit in a raspy voice. “Your scar isn’t ugly.”

She slides her arms around my waist and presses close, shivering. “You never apologize,” she states. “To anybody.”

“I’m not apologizing.” I shoot back, kind of joking.

I am apologizing, actually. I feel bad, but I have a hard time ever admitting I did anything wrong. Probably because my father never fails to let me know anyway.

But she’s right. I never apologize. People take the shit I dole out, but not her. She ran away from me. In the dark. Into a cemetery.

“You got a lot of guts,” I tell her. “I don’t. I’m just a coward that picks on kids.”

“That’s not true,” she replies, and I can tell there’s a smile in there somewhere.

But she doesn’t see what I see. She’s not in my head. I’m a coward, and I’m mean, and I feel so fucking aggravated all the time.

I tighten my hold on her, trying to keep her warm. “Can I tell you something, kid?” I ask, a lump swelling in my throat. “I’m always afraid. I do what he tells me to do. I stand and speak, or I stay silent, and I never say no to anything he wants. I never stand up for myself.”

I told her she was weak. But it was me. I’m weak. I hate who I am. Everything gets in my head, and I have no control.