Page 10 of The Darkest Parts of Me

I hop out of my truck, keeping the window rolled down for Shy. She lazily leans her head out the window to watch me, and as soon as I enter the store, I hear, “Renn! I was hoping you would stop by today!” as a middle-aged woman with bright red hair waves me over.

“What’s up, Val?”

She beams in response. Valery and her husband, Drew, have owned the store for over twenty years. I don’t think she cares much about selling goods, but rather, the gossip going around town. She is the town’s unofficial news source, I’ve learned, and if you want to know something, or need word to spread fast, just tell Valery, and she’ll make it happen.

“Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

“Well, that depends,” I say with a smirk, leaning on the counter she stands behind. “Who’s asking?” She smiles wider—Valery is feisty, so I like giving her a hard time.

“Mina is doing some cleanup at the bookstore. She mentioned she might need some help getting rid of a few boxes of old books.”

I nod. “I see.” I pretend to think about it for a second or two, but she and I already know my answer. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and see what I can do,” I say, winking.

Val gives an amused chuckle. “That’s what I thought you’d say. You’re a good one, you know,” she says, patting my arm. She makes this comment almost every time I speak with her, and every time I hear it, I can’t help but think, If you only knew who I really was—what I really was—I doubt you would still feel that way.

I spent so much time believing I was “the good guy” and that I was accomplishing an agenda for the greater good, when it had been a lie all along. However, my life now is as much of a lie as it was six years ago, the only difference being, now, I have control of it. It’s just me—my choices, my actions, and whatever consequences have yet to be revealed to me. In a way, I think that’s what motivates me to help those around me in the way I do. It’s not for attention or praise, but proof that my pure intentions are actually bringing about good. This way, I can see all possible outcomes of my actions before me, and I can try every day to move on from my past transgressions—try to throw away the evidence of a false life. But there will always be those memories engraved in my mind. I hate returning to that past life every day like I do, but my training taught me vital abilities that make me useful to the community here. Mending things, medical aid, problem-solving . . . to name a few of the myriad of skills I was conditioned to perfect and carry out‌ on command. In the end, I hope whatever I leave behind from my invasion of this planet will be something worth remembering.

“I try to be,” I say, stopping my thoughts from wandering too far. Val pats my arm again. “I just need a couple of things, then I’ll be on my way,” I add.

As I turn toward the aisles, she calls out, “And handsome, too. Have I ever mentioned how handsome you are?” Her face turns smug, waiting for my response, because I already have a smart remark for Val.

“Well, I don’t have to try in that area, but thanks for mentioning it,” I say, disappearing down an aisle, but not before I give her another wink.

As promised, Shy and I went on a quick walk when we got home. On days when we have more time, we hike up to my crash site. It’s about a six-mile journey from my cabin, so it takes us most of the day. Escape pods are programmed to “land” in remote areas so that they go unnoticed by unsuspecting inhabitants. And while I lived at that site for several months, there’s now no evidence anything extraterrestrial happened at that spot deep in the forest. But even though all proof has been dissolved away by the liquid termite that the association stowed in my crash kit, I feel compelled to go back to that place from time to time.

Tonight, the first thing I do when we return is thoroughly wash my calloused hands of the excess grease and grime that comes with fixing vehicles. Working at the auto shop is my only steady income, but I don’t need much, and I like the work. When I was at the academy, there were various programs and career opportunities I could have pursued further, and mechanics was something I seriously considered, but I was guided into other endeavors.

I climb the steps to my bedroom, kneeling to withdraw a large, metal box I store under my bed. Wildly out of place with the rest of the house, its cold, shiny exterior is truly alien compared to the green life surrounding it. I lay the box on the bed and open it with my thumbprint—the only way to unlock it. It scans the indents of my skin before the lid slowly rises. The box holds more than one function: it stores items, of course, but also acts as a console with a screen and touch pad that can be used for intergalactic communications. Housed inside are remnants of my crash kit and a few personal items. I have a tin full of a healing elixir that can cure wounds and broken bones within seconds simply by rubbing it onto the affected area. I’ve only had to use the ointment twice since landing here, sparing it in case there’s a major emergency someday. I also have a BioXscanner, a device that can detect internal damage and ailments that may otherwise go undetected, and then a stellar atlas. I briefly opened it once, just to make an estimate of where I was in this vast galaxy, but when the map of stars appeared before me, I realized I didn’t want to know. All that mattered was I was far, far away. Underneath the atlas is a small photon gun—which I’ve never touched—what is left of the liquid termite, and the translator, which no longer seems useful but I kept anyway.

However, the last item stored within the box is what I retrieve daily—the photon drive. The thin device is small enough to fit in my palm as I slide it into the slot on the side of the box, watching as the screen inside turns on automatically. I tap the screen a couple of times to get it set up.

I always check to see if the transmitter has detected any incoming signals, but just like every time before, there’s nothing. The same four words appear on the screen:

Zero incoming transmissions received.

I usually transmit my signal for a good twenty minutes before shutting it off. Initially, I switched it on a few times a day, especially during the first year after I arrived here, but now, I get around to it once a week, give or take. Programmed into the transmitter is a homing device, and it’s the last scrap of my previous life, giving me hope of making contact beyond this planet’s realm . . . or with the person who gave it to me. The moment he placed the drive in my hands was also the last time I saw Nate, my best friend.

I can still hear his voice as clearly as if I were standing before him once more.

“The drive holds a signal that can only be traced by me. Turn it on as much as you can, and I will try to find you. Get far, far away from here, and don’t look back.”

So much more could have been said in that chaotic moment, but we were out of time. Every day, I wish I could have told Nate how grateful I was for his friendship, but at the end of it all, I think he knew, even if I never said it out loud.

I press the button to begin the transmission. The incessant beeping echoes from loud to soft, indicating the beacon is working. Then I head downstairs to get Shy her dinner. The chirp from the transmitter can be heard even as I enter the kitchen. Its eerie tone drifts through the house, but the sound is so familiar to us that Shy doesn’t seem to mind as she spreads out on the couch, patiently waiting for her food.

“Do you truly like me? Or do you just use me to take you on walks and serve you food?” I say, and she lifts her head slightly. “Yeah, I thought so.”

I pull out the dog food, and she trots over, tail wagging happily and huffing at me almost as if saying, “Took you long enough.”

Replacing the bag in the cupboard, I take a moment to watch Shy devour her meal. I smile, grateful to have found her. Her previous owner left her in a small, cardboard box near the roadway one day, not long after I arrived here. Shy had clearly been abandoned, and it angered me that someone thought leaving a puppy at the mercy of the elements was a good idea—completely helpless to the weather and wild creatures of the forest.

Training her was easy; she’s smart, but also needy, which is why I love her, to be honest.

Feeling my gaze, Shy glances at me, and I swear her eyes roll in annoyance. “Fine,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to it.” With that, I return to the bedroom to check the transmitter. I already know what I’ll find, but I confirm the results anyway.

Signal transmitted.

No targets detected.

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