“They say death changes people.”
“Oh God!” I yelp at my mother’s voice, not hearing her approach. She sits next to me, her hand sits on my thigh and she gives me a reassuring pat, and continues, “A significant death.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s my way of coping, and yet, at every chance, my mother reminds me they’re dead. Like I need to be reminded. I fucking know. I’m not stupid. But it doesn’t mean I want to accept it. She simply doesn’t get that fact.
“It’s changing you. You’re becoming more distant.” I look to her to see her eyes are lost, then she looks down at me. “Who was that man?” she asks, changing the subject. Mother’s good at that, getting lost in her own thoughts.
“A man,” is all I can manage to reply.
I hear more footsteps and sit up. My father walks toward us with his hands in his pockets. It became his burden to deal with it—they were my mother’s parents and my grandparents. Though, I have to admit, I saw them more as my parents and, quite simply, my best friends.
My heart, it cracks again.
“It’s time we go.”
“I’m going to catch a cab,” I say to Father.
He nods in understanding.
My mother stands. “No. We can drive you. Don’t be silly,” she says as if it’s obvious.
I look up to my father for help, but he shakes his head. His hand goes to my mother’s back, touching her softly, and she instantly moves into his touch.
“No. I’m not getting in the car with you.”
“Rochelle, really?” Mother says.
“Yes, I’ll ring you later. I might even walk home. It will do me good.”
“Gosh.” My mother shakes her head and walks off.
I lie back down on the concrete and close my eyes as I hear their car take off.
To live in this world is to hurt, I don’t care what anyone says. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad that I’m struggling to breathe. Sitting up, I drop my head between my legs and a strangled cry escapes me. My eyes begin to water, and my heart beats so fast I wonder how this pain will ever go away.
“Stop thinking. It helps.”
Wiping at my face, which is covered with snot and tears, I finally look up. The man from earlier is standing in front of me again. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, a very large bag, and he’s looking down at me.
“I don’t want to,” I reply.
I need the pain—it’s a reminder of who they were to me.
Every-damn-thing!
“Your loss.” He starts walking while I wipe angrily at my face and stand, my black boots clicking on the ground as I follow him to a large, black truck.
“Can I have a ride?”
His brows pinch together, then he turns and opens the back, throwing in the large black bag before he shuts the truck and leans against the door to stare at me.
“You’re asking for a ride at a crematorium? I could be a murderer.”
I shake my head—I couldn’t care at this moment. “I need a ride.”
The man doesn’t answer me.
“Can you give me a ride?” I ask him again, my hands going directly to my hips.
“Do you want to see them?”
What? His words surprise me. I’m unsure of what to say. And before I can think, he reaches for me, gripping my wrist, and starts pulling me to the side door of the crematorium he came out of. I don’t argue, the words are completely stuck in my throat, and I am unable to move of my own volition. He pulls the heavy door open and we head inside. My breath leaves me and makes a whooshing sound when we get to a glass window. That’s when I see it—both of them. Their heads are visible, but their bodies are covered by a white sheet.
“Oh my God.” My hands fly to my mouth as I step closer to take in the sight. “Oh my God,” I say again, as one hand reaches out and touches the pane of glass in front of me. I start sliding back down, my heart full of pain and shattering into pieces. It hurts. It hurts so much. Hiccups leave me while I sob, and soon my grandparents are no longer visible as my knees touch the floor. The man leaves me there and steps back slightly so I can cry by myself while my treasured grandparents lay on cold metal slabs on the other side of the glass.
He stands there, not saying a word, until I manage to gather myself enough to stand. My eyes don’t glance in the direction of where they lie.
An angry hand reaches up and snatches his glasses from his face. He doesn’t flinch, simply stays still as if he was expecting it.
“You are a real asshole,” I say, with as much venom as I can muster. Stepping closer, my finger touches his chest, and I stab it at him. His chest is hard as a rock. “Asshole.” His hazel eyes lock onto me. Then he reaches for my wrist again, pulls hard, and walks me back out the same way we came in.
When the sun hits my skin, I pull away. He stops, turns, and reaches for his sunglasses, sliding them back in place before he leaves.
My feet are unable to move, that is until I scream at myself to head straight for his truck, open the passenger side door, and slide in.
“Don’t kill me,” I say, reaching for the seatbelt and buckling myself in.
He shakes his head and pulls out of the parking lot onto the main road.
Chapter Three
Rochelle
The man stops at a gas station first, gets out, fills his truck, and then comes back. When he slides back in, he hands me a bottle of water without saying a word and pulls out into traffic once again.
“Do you want my address?” I ask.
I watch as one hand sits on the steering wheel while the other rests on his leg.
“Figured you’d tell me when you want to go home,” he says, his voice distant and definitely not warm. More like frigid and aloof.
“Where are you going?” My voice is uncertain as I speak.
“Nowhere.” And he does just that. He drives nowhere with me for at least an hour. Doesn’t stop, just drives. I know all the places as he cruises around because I’ve lived here my whole life. My mind’s tired and my body is exhausted.
“You can take me home now,” I state, and give him my address.
He turns the truck around and starts driving in that direction.
“Why were you at the crematorium?” I ask as we get closer to my house.
“I work there,” he tells me.
“You work…” I shake my head, trailing off. Of course, I would be stuck in a truck with a guy who could easily kill me and dispose of my body without anyone knowing. What the actual fuck! Didn’t Law and Order teach me anything?
I’m addicted to those crime shows on the television.
“Second-guessing getting in a stranger’s car now, aren’t you?”
At first, I think he’s joking, but when I turn to look at him, his face is stoic. He’s deadly serious, and I’ve just told him where I live.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck.
“If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now,” I say, hoping and praying it is true.
“Or I could have just waited for you to give me your address, so I can come back when you’re sleeping.” His words hang in the air. “I bet a girl like you lives by herself too.”