Jeremiah Quick (34 page)

"You're doing fine," he said through
clenched teeth. "Keep going."

She sawed more, the knife handle so slick
with his blood that it tried to defeat the motion of her hands, but
then came the sensation that her hands were gently engulfed by
those of an invisible other, that there was help for this.

Jeremiah gagged, fought the restraints with
such a violent frenzy that she paused, but his voice, so raw, so
basic to earth, ground out, "Don't stop," and so she didn't.

The wound was open from X to star, now, and
she knew what came next, but didn't want to do it. He would be
gone. He would be gone forever, this time.

"Do it," Jeremiah said, his words pressured,
coming at her like quick darts, as if he read her mind, felt her
wondering already about regret.

The music swelled toward a crescendo,
The
most beautiful thing in the world is killing me…
and she knew
Jamie would be screaming, "Now!"

She pulled at the knife handle, fingers
clenched hard, and yanked the blade free of his squirming, bleeding
beautiful flesh. She thrust it at the hand-drawn star, angled it
under his ribs, and aimed the blade toward his heart.

When it encountered resistance, she pushed
harder, already knowing she was capable of finishing this.

His chest, her hands, the knife, her thighs
– covered in gore.

He cried out, still arguing with the
restraints, his hips bucking, thrusting his cock hard, hard into
her.

The sense of power she'd felt had not
abated.

She grabbed for it, rode it into the final
thrust, and the blade went true.

The rest was quiet, almost silent.

His eyes widened, and he smiled, just one
tiny brilliant flash.

He took a shuddering breath in, and it left
him with a whispered whoosh.

And all his lights went
out.

He was just… gone.

…
and to die is to know, and to die
is to know, and to die is to know, and to die is to know… it's
killing me, the most beautiful thing in the world is killing
me…

goodbye jeremiah quick

Chapter 46

J
eremiah's car ran
out of gas and Pretty pulled it to the curb just as it sputtered
and died. Big old land yachts do that sometimes.

She was wearing his jacket, the one with the
spikes, and walked the last four and a half miles home barefoot,
because for some insane reason she'd put on his boots and left her
shoes behind. His boots were fine for driving, but too large for
her feet to fill, in all the ways that mattered. They were heavy in
her arms, but she couldn't leave them behind. She wanted to cry,
but didn't seem to have any tears. Perhaps he really did eat them
all.

Are the details important?

He'd told her to move the car. Back it
straight out of the carport, very carefully, he said, and she'd
know what to do next.

Beneath the car was a hole. A grave.

A smell she couldn't fathom that wasn't
constant but came and went in waves. And, though she tried hard not
to look, her eye caught sight of black fabric that her brain told
her was a silk scarf, and a glimpse of soft white that might have
been Jamie's blond hair.

It was… hard. To put Jeremiah into that
hole. Not just physically dragging him, but mentally, emotionally,
letting him go. Even though she knew he didn't inhabit his body
anymore, even though she knew he was home with his beautiful
boy.

It was still hard.

Covering them up was hard, too, the most
difficult physical labor she'd done in a long time. And her body
was still more raw wound than healed flesh.

After… she put on her own jeans and the
t-shirt Jeremiah had been wearing before she killed him. His boots.
She couldn't find her underwear or bra, but she found his spiked
jacket.

She didn't know what to do, so she went into
the house. She poked into his nooks and crannies and filled the
pockets of his jacket with various shiny things, just… bits and
reminders of Jeremiah that she could keep. She pocketed a manila
envelope of photographs – inside were two pictures of Jeremiah and
herself back in high school that she'd never seen before, hadn't
known existed. There she was, clutching at him, and there he was,
with the sad look of leaving in his eyes. There was also a small
print of the black and white picture of himself, the one she had
not stolen from the art room. Three pictures of a woman with a
teasing scowl who had to be Corrie.

And a hundred pictures of a boy who could
only be Jamie.

As she walked, she thought about things she
didn't take.

A long tube that contained rolled up
drawings in dark pencil, mostly of people standing in front of
mirrors, but the reflections were distorted, or otherwise at odds
with the rest. One of the pages looked as if it had been crumpled
up for a long time, and then a long time later carefully smoothed
out again. It was a woman, standing half-turned from the mirror,
holding a baby. Pretty wasn't sure she'd ever seen such a perfect
rendition of a baby, not drawn by hand. Clearly the artist had
loved this baby. But the woman's face in the mirror, well.

She had lines.

Careful fine lines, drawn with a fine-point
pen or perhaps even tattooed. Pretty held the drawing next to her
face, in front of the mirror. The lines matched her own fading
lines, most of which Jeremiah hadn't cut, out of mercy or
compassion or maybe even love. She would never know.

At the bottom of the page, in very tiny
print, were words.

They don't tell you it's a trap
.

This wasn't a story Jeremiah had told her,
and she had no context for it, but the drawing looked motherly, and
he had said his mother was an artist.

She should have taken the tube of
drawings.

And yet. It was almost all she could do to
keep walking, wearing the heavy jacket, carrying the heavy boots in
her arms, and all with the crushing weight of the last month
pressing into her in the form of wounds and scars.

She had abandoned her family.

And she was returning to them… different.
The scars Jeremiah forced into her skin might fade, they might
not.

There could be a lot to deal with, things
she couldn't even wrap her head around while walking home barefoot
and fresh out of tears in the almost-dawn of a cold autumn day.

She might be arrested for killing Jeremiah,
although the thought of that ritual coming back to hurt her seemed
impossible.

How could it be wrong? How could it be
illegal?

It was the most right thing she'd ever
done.

Guilt. Fear. A heavy sickness in her stomach
about what she would find when she reached "home" – but she had
nowhere else to go, and there was nowhere else she
wanted
to
go. She wanted to go home, more than anything else.

She didn't love them any less, and, in fact,
would probably appreciate them more than she had before Jeremiah
Quick happened to her. She wondered what they would think of that?
The thought of her children, her home, made her start running,
boots clutched to her chest with one arm, jacket held closed with
the other. Home. Home. Home. Her footsteps pounded the pavement,
her mind chanted the word, her heart raced between the two.

Finally, her street, her driveway, her
house, and her wonderful, welcoming back door.

She fell against it in sheer, exhausted
relief.

Grasped the handle and… found it locked.

Cold terror, from toes to fingertips. She
was no longer welcome here. She staggered there on the porch,
leaning, letting loose a dry wracking sob.

Please, please, let the door open.
Please.

She had no home.

She could bang on the door with her fists.
Break a window with a rock. Scream her husband's name. Force her
way inside.

But.

If she wasn't welcome, she wouldn't force
herself upon them. She jerked her chin up, felt her jaw clench and
her tongue rest tightly against her bottom teeth. Defiance. She
wouldn't stay where she wasn't wanted.

The dog barked once as she stumbled across
the driveway, fumbled with the handle of the man-door to the
garage. That doorknob did turn.

The old couch was still there and she
collapsed onto it, pulling Jeremiah's jacket around herself. And
then she let go of everything, just for a little while, too empty
to consider the meaning of the locked door.

Daylight.

Something woke her, but for a few seconds
she couldn't even make sense of where she was. She blinked at the
man standing over her, and almost shrieked.

He looked different. Was it because she was
different?

"Hey," he said, and his voice was gentle,
not angry. "Where have you been?"

She half turned to see him better, and tried
to smile, but wanted to cry.

And then he bent his knees, squatting beside
her, and raised a hand to push her hair out of her face. Jeremiah's
braid had unraveled in her travels.

"Jesus," he said, and only then did she
remember what a fucking mess she was. She was like... the wreckage
of who she used to be.

"Baby, what happened to you?"

"You locked me out," she said, and her voice
came out strangled, aching with the need to cling to him and cry,
be held, be comforted.

"Never," he said, shaking his head, fingers
stroking through her hair, deftly separating tangles. Some of the
tangles were probably Jeremiah's clotted blood.

"The kids have been scared. They want the
door locked. We have keys and everything." He winked, and that told
her something bigger than words. His lips were almost a smile, and
it was that look, that silent communication known only to people
who've lived together for decades, that convinced her he was
telling the truth. The secret language of lovers.

"I love you," she said. "I love you so much.
I didn't mean to leave." And then she whispered, "I did a really,
really bad thing," even though saying it that way felt like a lie.
He would think it was bad. Everyone would.

He scooped her into his arms and stood,
cradling her like she was a child.

Jeremiah's boots spilled out of her hands
and hit the floor with a thud and another thud.

And Pretty's husband, her confidant, her
partner for all the years of her adult life, carried her into the
house, studded jacket and all. He was the only one who never left.
He was her home.

She was murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
I can explain. Or maybe I can't. But I'm sorry."

He held her painfully tight and
whispered."Shh. There will be time for all that. I love you, too.
I'm glad you're home."

Pretty cried, and there were tears.

Her beloved kissed them away.

And that was close enough.

[end final draft]

2.18.14

2:42 pm

Destiny’s Page

There’s a childhood friend

You’ll never forget

He’s the one that affects you the most

He’ll make your heart melt

With the things that he’s felt

But the memory’s only a ghost.

He’s the one that you long for

And never forget

Even when he’s gone far away

And the day he returns

Is the time that you learn

Your heart is a place he will stay.

He rides like the wind

And will never forget

The ones that he left far behind

His life is an art

But we’re all in his heart

And home is the love he will find.

~smj circa 1989

SM Johnson lives in
northern Wisconsin with one husband, one daughter, one dog, one
shady orange-striped cat, and a garter snake named Kyle.

Her favorite winter
activity is hibernating with a good book
.

She's published six novels
and three short stories, with many more works to come. Find out
more at
SM Johnson
Writes
, where life gets
messy.

Author's Note

This story, Jeremiah Quick, is written in
memory of a small number of people who had a big impact on my
journey to becoming the woman I am today. It's not just for Jeremy,
but also for Adam Brown and Samantha Jo Johnson, and others.

I want this story to be a reminder that
HIV/AIDS is still real, and still deadly.

AIDS Info, National Institute of
Health
(NIH)

On suicide: If a friend or loved one tells
you they are suicidal, ask if they have a plan. If they have a plan
and the means and ability to carry it out, please take them to the
nearest emergency department or call 911.