Page 3 of The Truths We Burn

Ignoring my statement completely, he states, “Don’t you question my faith, son. And I don’t want you hanging out with them anymore. Burning down that willow tree was the last straw, Rook. You have no idea the strings that needed to be pulled to clear you of that.”

I chuckle, grabbing my hoodie from the back of the couch. I pull it over my head, tugging it down my body. “Final straw. First straw. Doesn’t matter, man.” Turning to face him as I walk backwards, I spread my arms wide. “You can’t keep me from them. It’ll never happen. Just like I can’t keep you from polishing off that entire bottle tonight. Remember, I’m the devil. The devil does as he pleases.”

I don’t bother denying the tree. He knows I did it. Hell, everyone knows I did it. But without any proof, with no witnesses, there isn’t shit they can do, and that is the beauty of it all.

Walking around knowing everyone sees me as a chaotic arsonist, from the police to teachers—they all know what I am.

The Antichrist is what they call me. Pooled from the loins of Satan. Hell on planet Earth, or in this case, hell for Ponderosa Springs.

I love it.

How they clutch their rosary when I walk by. Whisper three Hail Marys because just glancing at me is a sin.

I love that they know all the things I’ve done and can do nothing to stop me. Not now, not ever.

There is no stopping me.

Stopping us.

And you know what? Fuck that tree.

He looks at me, dead eyes full of disgust. “You make me sick.” He grabs the neck of his whiskey bottle and walks away to the den, not speaking another word to me before I leave.

I tug the door open, slamming it behind me with a thud, not missing a beat as I walk down the driveway towards Alistair’s car. The tinted windows shield his hateful ass from me, but I already know there is a permanent scowl awaiting me behind the glass, even if he’s in a good mood.

Slipping into the passenger seat, I lean back into the headrest with a deep breath. There is a pause of silence, and I can feel Alistair staring at the side of my face.

“Is there something I can help you with, Caldwell?” I ask, still looking forward.

“Yeah, you have blood on your fucking chin. Clean that shit up.” He reaches into the glove box, tossing white napkins into my lap.

I take them easily, wiping at my chin. The red stains them almost immediately. Tomorrow, the cut will be nothing but a dull ache, and in a few days, I’ll probably peel the scab back just to feel it hurt all over again.

Unless he hits me again and splits it back open.

Either way.

“I spar with you almost every other day. You can hit him fucking back.”

Rubbing harder to make sure it’s all off, I respond, “I can handle it.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the driveway and heading towards the Peak to meet up with the other guys. The last few days of summer are fading to black, senior year of high school slowly approaching, and I’m not looking forward to seeing so many faces.

I spend ninety percent of my time surrounded by the same four people, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I reach into my black jeans for my pack of Marlboro Reds and pull one stick from the pack.

“It’s not about you handling it. I’m aware you can take a punch. It’s the fucking principle, Rook. How are you just going to sit back while your dad beats the shit out of you?”

Balling up the napkin, tightening my fist around the material, and tossing it onto his floorboard, I lean back and shut my eyes. Out of habit, I flick the Zippo through my fingers, rolling it around a few times before striking the flint and putting the flame to the tip.

“How about you let me worry about my father, alright? I’m fine. One more year and we’ll be off at college, far, far away.” I inhale the smoke deep into the bottom of my lungs. “I’ve been dealing with this since I was a kid. I can do one more year. So just drop it, bro.”

An aggravated grunt fills the car before I watch him press his foot farther onto the accelerator, and I barely blink when we hit eighty-five and climbing. If we die in a crash, we die in a crash.

Everyone ends up in the same place at some point, six feet under. Doesn’t matter how we get there.

Ya see, we all feel the same way. Well, all of us except for Silas’s lovestruck ass.

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