Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

‘Oh my God,’ she says.

‘Maybe he’s just passed out.’

Candice doesn’t respond. As the car slows down she pushes open the door and steps out into the chill April air. She walks toward the sedan, moonlight reflecting off the chrome grille. Looks down at the man lying on the asphalt beside it. Looks at his left hand. The fingers are curled and dirt is crusted under the nails, black crescents lining the tip of each one. She looks at his face, looks into his eyes. He doesn’t look back. He’s incapable of looking back. He’s incapable of anything. The left side of his face is covered in blood. There’s a black dot like a wormhole in his temple. A five-pointed star carved into his forehead. The gashes deep and red, white bone visible beneath them.

She steps back. She puts her hands over her mouth. Her face feels numb. Her legs feel numb. She can’t feel her legs at all, and no wonder, they must have disappeared, they must have simply vanished out from under her, because now she’s sitting on the cold asphalt in the middle of the street, and the only way that could have happened is if her legs vanished. A second ago they were holding her up.

Why is Neil outside? Why is Neil lying in the street? That’s such a silly, stupid thing for him to be doing.

‘Neil,’ she says, ‘we have to go inside. It’s late.’

2

Sandy stands looking through the dirty glass of his bedroom window. He watches his mother push her way out the passenger’s-side door of Vivian’s car. He watches her walk toward the place where Neil lies. He watches her face contort. Watches the eyes go glossy, and the mouth open and close, open and close, like a goldfish that’s just been fed. He watches her put her hands to her mouth and collapse to the asphalt. Under normal circumstances it would make him sad to see his mother in such a state — he loves her and doesn’t like to see her hurt — but right now all he can think about is getting caught. And getting locked up.

He tried to make it look like his stepfather was murdered by a serial killer. He read a story about a serial killer not too long ago and tried to make it look like that, like one of those killings, and if he did, if he was successful, maybe he won’t get caught. But he isn’t sure. He did it in a panic. He didn’t think about how to cover up his crime until it was committed, and he might have done a poor job of it. All he knows is he did the best he could. In a panic, his mind spinning, his heart racing, he did the best he could. If he’d planned he’d have done better, but he didn’t plan. He didn’t really believe he was going to do it. Even while he did it he didn’t really believe it was happening. It was as if the part of his brain that could tell fantasy from reality went black in those moments, just turned off completely. I’m tired, good night. If he’d believed it was real he would have planned.

But right after the second shot, the shot that sent his stepfather slumping to the floor in a strange motion that seemed somehow deliberate, as if he’d simply decided to lean forward and rest on his head with his behind in the air, reality came back to Sandy and he panicked. He paced the floor. He prayed to God to let him take it back. He promised he’d never hurt anyone ever again if only God would take it back. But still the body remained, dead as ever, and Sandy realized he would have to do something with it. He would have to make it look like someone else murdered his stepfather. Unless he wanted to get locked up. Unless he wanted his mother to know what he’d done. And he couldn’t stand the thought of that. That was the worst.

His mother could never, ever know.

At first he could think of nothing. All he felt was panic and he couldn’t get his mind under control enough to form coherent thoughts. Red crayon in an angry fist scribbled across the walls of his mind. Then he got an idea. He walked to the front door and opened it and looked around, afraid that people might have heard the gunshots, afraid they might be outside talking, wondering what had happened. Did it wake you up too, Sandy? But the street was silent. The windows in the other houses and apartments were black. If anyone had heard they hadn’t come outside to investigate. And probably no one had heard. These gunshots were not like in the movies.

He might be able to do this. He might be able to get away with it.

He dragged the body outside. It took a lot of work. He had to stop to catch his breath more than once. Neil weighed twice as much as him, maybe more. If it weren’t for the terror coursing through his veins he probably wouldn’t have been able to do it at all. But finally he managed. He got the body out to the street and next to the car. He opened the door to make it look like it happened as Neil was stepping out of the vehicle. He went back inside and grabbed a straight razor from the bathroom. He leaned over the body and carved long gashes into its head. They came together to form a five-pointed star. Neil didn’t even seem to be a person anymore when he did it. Sandy could have been carving into anything. Had he thought about it he wouldn’t have been able, the image in his mind would have made him feel ill, but by moving without thinking, by simply acting, he managed without hesitation.

That’s what the serial killer had done in the story he read: carved stars into the foreheads of his victims.

He went back inside again and washed the razor and put it away. Then grabbed the keys from the table by the front door and a pair of shoes from the floor. He put the keys into Neil’s hand and the shoes on his feet. He tied the shoes, making bunny ears from the laces and looping them through one another.

His third trip inside was his last. He locked the door, then turned to face the room. He flipped over couch cushions to hide the bloodstains, then moved the couch forward a couple feet to cover the stains on the carpet. He undressed, hiding his now-bloodied T-shirt between his mattress and box-spring. He put the gun and the spent shells into a shoe-box under his bed. He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Everything he’d done caught up to him. He lay there and felt sick to his stomach, afraid, like he should just run away. But running would be an admission of guilt. His mom would know what he’d done. And the police would know. He had to stay and simply hope she never found out.

He prayed again to God to please let him take it back, please.

He looked out his window, saw Neil’s brown shoes jutting past the front end of the car, knew nothing had changed and nothing would, no matter how many times he said please, no matter how sincerely.

God’s silence was an answer and the answer was no.

His mother’s eyes are glossy like when she’s been drinking. Her mouth is open. She looks like a little girl to him right now, a little girl who’s just been slapped in the face and doesn’t know how to react, confused by the shock of what’s happened.

He’d do anything to take it back, but can’t, so he simply stands there and watches as Vivian helps his mother to her feet and guides her toward the front door. Then the angle is wrong for him to see anything. They disappear from sight.

The front door unlatches. He hears it.

He walks to bed and crawls into it. He holds his pillow tight to his chest, feeling like a little baby, helpless and alone.

All he can do now is wait to see what happens.

3

Candice walks toward the front door. She feels lost, detached from everything, a rudderless boat adrift on the sea. Vivian reaches out and grabs the doorknob, turns it, pushes open the door. Candice can see it all happening, can feel Vivian guiding her into the house with a gentle hand pressed against her back, can feel her legs moving under her, step after step, but she also feels that she’s very far from all this, feels that she’s not a part of it at all.