J. Redmerski - Song of the Fireflies

And I would never want to put Bray in any danger, either.

“I’ll talk to him tonight,” I said.

“Give him a chance, though,” she said. “Don’t just send him packing. He’ll probably blame it on me if you do that.”

And that was exactly what happened.

Later that night when Mitchell came home from wherever—I think he lost his job because of his habit, so I had no idea where he was spending his time during the day anymore—I tried talking to him.

“Mitch,” I said, hitting the Power button on the television remote. “I need to talk to you about something.”

His light-brown hair was dirty, thick with oil that kept his bangs from falling around his eyes like they naturally did. He was wearing the same Georgia Bulldogs T-shirt he had on yesterday. And the day before that.

I set the remote down on the coffee table and leaned forward in the recliner.

“Yeah, what’s up?” He plopped down on the sofa, stretching his legs across the cushions and crossing his ankles.

“I think you need to get some help, man. You’re really starting to worry me. You never sleep, and when you do it’s for two days straight. Did you lose your job?”

He wasn’t taking what I was saying seriously at first, or maybe he was just trying to brush it off, make it appear that it wasn’t as bad as I was making it out to be. His head fell to the side so that he could see me and he reached out his hand. “Can you pass me the remote?”

I sighed, frustrated with him already. “No, Mitch, listen, I’m being serious here. You need to get some help. I’ll do whatever I can to help you, just name it. I’ll call around for a good rehab center, take you back and forth if you ever need me to. Whatever you need.”

“ Rehab? ” Mitchell spun around on the sofa and sat upright in an instant. His expression distorted with insult. “What the fuck are you talking about, rehab ? You can’t be serious.”

I put up both hands in a surrendering fashion, trying to defuse the situation before it started. “I’m just trying to help you. If not rehab, then—”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” He stood up. “I’m not addicted to meth,” he lashed out, slashing his hand in the air in front of him. “I just do it every now and then. I can’t believe you’re even saying this shit to me. You’re no fucking angel.”

“I never claimed to be,” I said, getting pissed but keeping it contained. “But Mitch, your ‘every now and then’ is every day .”

I stood up then, too. “Look, if you won’t at least try to get some help, or get off that shit completely—drop it cold turkey if you’re not addicted—then I’m sorry, man, but you’re gonna have to find another place to live.”

His eyes grew as wide as plates.

Bray walked in the front door at that very moment.

“Hi, baby,” she said moving through the living room toward me and having no idea what was going on. She pushed up on her toes and pecked me on the lips.

Mitchell was glaring at us from behind her.

“Oh, I get it now,” he said, and Bray turned upon hearing the anger in his voice. “This is because of her.” He pointed at Bray once. “Little Miss Fucking Sunshine comes back to Georgia, moves in, and suddenly three’s a crowd.” His face contorted pathetically for a moment. “ Seriously , man? You’re picking a piece of ass over your best friend? The pussy way out, man, that’s fucked up!”

I went toward him, both hands clenched into fists at my sides. Bray stepped in front of me and I stopped.

“Don’t talk about her like that, Mitch.” My jaw was clenched painfully and the blood rushed to my head. “You fucking know better. And besides, she’s always been my best friend. Not you.”

Mitchell smiled fiendishly and shook his head. He glanced back and forth between me and Bray. I was ready to knock him over the back of that sofa. One wrong word or syllable was all it was going to take. Bray knew it, too. She kept both hands pressed against my chest and her little body in my way, hoping it would be enough.

“Mitchell,” she said before he had a chance to say whatever it was he was smiling so cunningly about, “I don’t care if you stay here, and Elias knows this. This has nothing to do with me. We’re just worried. Meth is some bad shit.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” he said. “But I know about you. Ain’t that right?”

The tips of my fingers were digging into the palms of my hands. But I waited, hoping he wasn’t about to go the wrong way with this. I really didn’t want to hit him.

Mitchell smirked and went on, “See, she and I talked while she was living in South Carolina. Yeah. She told me all about that guy—” he snapped his fingers “—what was his name? Garrett? In fact, Bray called me several times. But she didn’t call you, did she? Not once. Some best friend.”

“I only called you to find out things about Elias!”

I still wanted to hit him, now more than before. But I also wanted to hear this.

Bray stepped away from me and started to go toward him, but I reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her back before she got too far.

But that didn’t stop her from shouting.

“You’re such a prick!” she roared. “Don’t you ever try to make what I did out to be something that it wasn’t!”

Mitchell threw his head back and laughed.

“A game-playing little bitch,” he said and before he could get the rest out, I was pushing Bray to the side and going toward him.

“Elias, don’t hit him!” Bray shouted at me from behind. “You know it’s the drugs!”

I shoved the coffee table out of my way and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and started pushing him toward the front door; his heels were partially dragging the carpet. By this time, I did want to hit him, more than anything, but I knew Bray was right.

“I can’t even believe you took her back after what she did!” he screamed in my face, the smell of his meth-breath whirling cruelly up into my nostrils. “All that time, Elias! That hell she put you through! All those times I listened to you talk about her, all that childhood stuff, the stupid fucking firefly story! She’s got you whipped!”

I shoved him right out the front door. He fell on his ass, but stayed there on the concrete screaming up at me, his long bangs now disheveled around his face despite the oil.

“Unfuckingbelievable! I thought you were better than that, bro,” he said.

“Your shit will be on the sidewalk by tonight,” I said, glaring down at him. “Don’t ever fucking come in here again. You understand? After you get your shit, that’s it. Don’t come back here or I’ll beat the fuck out of you.”

“Whatever, man,” he said and pushed himself to his feet. “At least give me my car keys.”

I looked over my shoulder at Bray and she went into the living room, coming back seconds later with his keys in her hand. Mitchell reached out for them, but I took them from her instead and pushed her carefully behind me.

“Don’t go near her ever again. Not for anything.”

I dropped the keys in his hand.

“Yeah, fuck you,” he said casually and turned and walked toward his car.

“I’m so sorry,” Bray said after I shut the front door.

She stepped up to me, clasping her fingers gently around my hands at my sides.

“I did not expect it to go down like that,” I said, looking toward the wall, thinking about Mitchell.

“He’ll come around,” she said. “He’s just not right in the head.”

“I know.”

Bray helped me pack up all of Mitchell’s things, which wasn’t much, just boxes of his clothes and movies and CDs. Thankfully, the only furniture in the apartment that was his was a small TV stand and a bar stool from Dickey’s Bar and Grill that he bought at an auction after Dickey’s closed down. We carried everything outside and set it near the front door instead of on the sidewalk. I didn’t want anything to get stolen or rained on.