Page 18 of Firefly Effect

I take a slow, deep breath, hating the way his words trigger me. I despise hearing men speak about women with such a bitter, disrespectful tone, yet I hear it constantly when I’m working here.

“Maybe you should try dating,” I suggest. “Take your mind off her.”

He coughs out a laugh before gulping down a quarter of what’s left of his beer before slamming it down again. “And maybe you should mind your fucking business.”

The words are muttered almost under his breath, but I hear them loud and clear.

I glare at the man who’s used up my last ounce of patience. “That’s it, Jimmy. Time to go home.” I grab the nearly empty mug. “You’re cut off.”

Rage illuminates the drunk man’s face. “The fuck I am.” He lunges toward me, the top half of his body leaning over the bar. He swipes at his beer mug, wraps his fingers around the handle, and manages to yank it from my hands, but his intoxicated grip falters, causing the glass to fall to the floor and shatter all around my feet.

“Hey!” Armando booms, stepping in front of me. “Outta here, man. You know we don’t put up with that shit here.”

I want to tell Armando it’s not a big deal—that Jimmy doesn’t mean any harm—but Patrick wouldn’t stand for that type of behavior either, even though he and Jimmy were longtime friends. Their relationship isn’t as close as it used to be, but it’s a friendship nonetheless.

Armando comes around the bar, and Jimmy’s face turns beet red as he fights hard against the younger man, but while their lanky builds are evenly matched, Armando clearly has the advantage against the drunk patron.

“I’ve got it from here,” booms an authoritative voice.

Officer Gabe stands directly behind Jimmy, one hand on his police baton like he wants everyone to see he’s prepared for battle. I hadn’t even noticed Gabe walk in, but there he is, ready to save the day.

It takes everything in my power to refrain from rolling my eyes. Armando shoots me a look of annoyance—he knows this is exactly the type of power trip Gabe gets off on.

“C’mon, Jimmy, let’s go,” Gabe commands. “You don’t want to make this worse for yourself.”

As much as I hate to admit it, Gabe’s presence has a positive effect on the situation, as Jimmy seems to listen. He raises his hands and backs away from the bar, although he eyes me like he’s not done with me yet. And I’m sure he’s not. Jimmy’s one of those men who works to get shit-faced at the Firefly, even if that means living paycheck to paycheck—or worse, in debt.

I shiver, thinking about the drunken camping trips Uncle Patrick and his friends used to take me on when I was younger. Every summer for years, Uncle Patrick would take me and a group of other folks to Deep Creek Campsite to see the fireflies. Some of his friends had kids my age, but we always found other kids there that we didn’t know. I was always making friends.

One in particular was my favorite.

Frowning, I try to push memories of Carley Pruitt away. I’ve never been able to escape her completely, haunted beyond repair by the deep regret and sorrow I felt for years after her death and the guilt I still feel when I think of how we got separated that night. In only minutes, we lost Carley to something dark. Something sinister.

Her death was ruled a homicide, her murderer never found.

To top it off, I’ll never forget the boy who was arrested that night—Foster Pruitt, Carley’s brother. Not even my statement had been able to help support his alibi, since we got separated at some point in our jaunt through the woods even though we were together when we heard Carley scream. Foster remained the number one suspect for months before the authorities finally released him due to insufficient evidence.

Outside of us hearing Carley’s scream in the woods that night, no one else came forth as a witness, and while Foster’s prints were all over his sister from him trying to find a pulse, the rock that had been used to bludgeon her showed no trace of his DNA. That lack of evidence ultimately saved him, but it wasn’t enough to prevent the rumors that circulated for years to come.

The residents of Bryson City were convinced Foster had to have done it. “Just look at him,” they would whisper. “He must have been wearing gloves.”

But they weren’t there to see the fear in Foster’s eyes when he discovered his sister. They didn’t hear his anguished scream as he raced to her and tried to find any sign of life. They didn’t witness the utter heartbreak of a brother realizing his baby sister was gone forever.

Maybe I shouldn’t have raced back to the campsite right then. Maybe I should have never left Foster alone with Carley’s dead body. Maybe I should have tried to help find her pulse too. If I had stayed, maybe then Foster wouldn’t have looked so guilty when the authorities followed me to the crime scene and saw the teenager cradling Carley’s lifeless body. Maybe he could have mourned his sister with friends and family instead of alone behind a set of cold steel bars.

And maybe, just maybe, Foster wouldn’t have disappeared as soon as he was cleared from all charges. The only evidence I’ve found that he is still alive is a single published poem in an online journal, written by none other than Foster Pruitt.

A Flicker of Light

By Foster Pruitt

What happens when a light burns out?

Does it spark back to life or die?

That night, I heard a terrified shout

When a flicker lit up her cries

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