Page 3 of Secondhand Garagyre

“HeyPatrick, it’s me again.Anotherfull filled week of work under the belt.Thankgoodness it’sFriday.Anotherday trapped in that office would have been torture.Thepiteous stares and fake compassionate comments from everyone make me want to scream.Ican’t believeIhave to be a real adult and function when you’re not here.HowamIsupposed to exist without you?You’remy twin…”

Isigh asIlook down at the smooth stone and read the writing found there for the millionth time. “HereliesPatrickEdwardTaylor, beloved son and brother.”Hisbirthday and date of death are listed below.It’sonly been a month since the accident that took my twin’s life and left me broken inside and out.Thedrunk driver who caused the wreck walked away without a scratch on him and suffered no repercussions for his actions.He’sthe son of a local, wealthy businessman, and the old adage “Itisn’t what you know, but who you know” has been implemented as a result of his actions.

BradleyArchibaldThomasIIIhasn’t been arrested or seen the inside of a jail cell for what he did to us.Myfamily has been torn apart by the irresponsible actions of a spoiled child in the body of a man.Thefact that he has pursued me relentlessly in high school and college is the icing on the cake.He’sa prick with a false sense of entitlement because of his daddy’s money and social standing.Patrickwarned me years ago to never be alone with him, andI’vetaken his advice seriously.

Myparents are inconsolable because a parent isn’t supposed to bury their child.Andthen there’s me, the twin who lived.Itshould have been me who died, butPaddysaw what was about to happen and jerked the wheel of his truck so his side was hit on impact instead of mine.Mybrother’s selfless actions saved my life but ended his.Thelevel of survivor’s guiltI’vebeen dealing with is crippling.

“MomandDadare doing okay, or are doing as okay as they can, considering the fact that you’re dead, and the piece of shit who killed you is walking around breathing free air.Hehad the audacity to come up to me at the grocery store last week and try to speak to me like nothing happened.Asif he didn’t get behind the wheel plastered drunk and kill you as a result.Hehad zero chance with me before all of this, and now, he could be the last man on the planet, andIwould still chop his dick off with a dull paring knife,”Iended in a fury-filled whisper.

Myfamily’s plot in the cemetery is in a secluded corner, but it wouldn’t be wise for me to openly threaten one of theThomases.Iglance around to make sureIam still alone, thankful there isn’t another living soul in sight.

Thesole companyIkeep here is the stone gargoyle bordering my family’s burial plot from theJoneses.Mygrief was too sharp at the funeral for me to notice much of the area surroundingPatrick’sgrave, but its stone visage has become increasingly familiar to me throughout the month.

Itdoesn’t look like most gargoyles do.Thisone is almost… handsome in a way.It’sbeen carved in an interesting pose.

Insteadof crouching like it’s about to spring off the pedestal to defend its domain like most gargoyles are, this one is seated in a chair of sorts with his head buried between his hands.It’sa pose of utter exhaustion, grief, and dejection.

There’sno doubt the artist intended the statue to be a male.Thefacial structure is overtly masculine with sharp cheekbones, a protruding brow, and full lips.Thefact that he has spikes jutting from his chin and some sort of textured jawline does nothing to detract from his appeal.

Thepalms of the hands end on the raised brows so any passerby can see the intricate detail the artist has taken on the face.Thestatue’s eyes are closed, but you can see the tear tracks running down his face.Wingscapped in vicious-looking claws drape over the shoulders while horns hold his long hair off of his face.Intricatedetail has gone into the hair.Youcan see individual strands of hair where it hangs down on either side of his head.Histail drapes across his lap, ending down by his three-toed feet that connects to digitigrade legs.

Igoogled that one becauseIhaven’t seen that type of legs on anything else except the werewolves inHollyweirdmovies.

Myshoulders heave with a sigh.Ireally need to get a life.I’mmore fascinated with a statue that borders my dead brother’s grave thanIam in any man who’s asked me out in the last several years.Withthat thought,Igather my jacket and purse,then stand to leave.Melancholyfills me asIgaze at the only remnant left of my beloved twin.

“Bye,Paddy.I’llsee you next time.TellGrammaandGrandpaIsaid hello for me.Ilove you tons and bunches.”

AsIstep around the bench situated at the base of the gargoyle’s pedestal,Ireach out and touch the pad the statue is connected to in a brief caress.Thesmooth stone under my fingers seemingly flares with warmth at my touch.

Ishrug it off as a figment of my imagination.Thestone is just warm from the rays of the setting sun, nothing more.

Chapter Three

LAITHOG

Shetouched me!

Howdare that… that… thathumantouch what does not belong to her?!

Thefact that she only grazed the tips of her fingers across the base my stone casing rests upon is beside the point.

Thesheer audacity of that wench!

Chapter Four

LAITHOG

6 months later…December.

Whereis she…?

Thanksto her incessant ramblings with her dead brother,Iknow it isFriday.

Thefemale comes to the cemetery everyMonday,Wednesday,Friday, and sometimes after her morning worship onSundays.

Inthe last six months, she hasn’t missed a single day… andIhave become accustomed to the sound of her voice.

Itis not as ifIactually miss her or anything.

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