Page 11 of Fall

“When I first left California, I subscribed to cutting myself, drinking into oblivion, and having sex with strangers because I could. It was my version of declaring that I had complete control over a body I hated. But I’m not that girl anymore, Celeste. We don’t have to be victims and we don’t have anything to prove.”

We continue to drink shots of whiskey in silence. Neither of us know what to say next, and I’m sure she’s trying to absorb the story I just told. It’s not uncomfortable, though. It’s actually sort of peaceful, and eventually, the alcohol loosens our lips.

“Thank you, Evie. I know how hard that was for you. Do you think we could smoke some weed tonight and go to bed? I think after everything, I just don’t want to feel anymore.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I nearly fall out of my chair and my eyes most definitely bug out of my head. “Cele, you don’t smoke.”

Her smile is weak, but it’s there. “Well, it’s not going to be our favorite pastime, and I hate the way the smell sticks to everything, but I think after that, we deserve an escape from reality for a little while, don’t you?”

This is an interesting reaction to my story. Fuck if I know what the right thing to do is because I’m pretty sure drugs aren’t the solution, but I’m definitely not going to say to no.

“Yea, we can smoke, Cele, but only because I really want to see you high, NOT because it’s the answer.”

An hour later, we’re laughing the kind of laughs that hurt our stomachs and bring happy tears in our eyes. And for the first time in weeks, we’re both finally breathing.

4

Islide out of bed, making sure I don’t wake up Celeste. She passed out from our little smoking adventure in a fit of giggles last night. The best part is that she slept the whole night through. I’m not sure if it’s because she really does sleep better with me or from the magic of cannabis, but regardless of the reason, I’m just glad she slept. She deserves some peace.

I dress in my usual black skinny jeans and black hoodie, leave a note for her, and head to the library. I know I don’t have to go to the library to do what I planned for today, but it’s safer than using my laptop. I don’t want her stumbling in on what I’m about to do.

I walk through the doors of the extravagant library, embracing the smell of aged paper, and calm my nerves. It’s summer term, so the place is nearly empty and the few that are here don’t even bother to look up as I walk by.

The first thing I’m going to do is check on Micah. It bothers the shit out of me that no one is there with him, so the least I can do is check up on him.

Breaking into the hospital computer system isn’t nearly as hard as it should be and I’m in Micah’s records in no time. I skim through all the medical jargon to see that he’s recovering, out of ICU, and has been transferred to a medical facility in California.

What?

He’s not even here. I make a mental note to ask Taylor about it and wonder why he wouldn’t tell me. This entire situation annoys the fuck out of me, but there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment. He’s safe and alive. He may not be the boy who held my heart anymore, but I don’t want him to be dead.

I clear my mind of all things Micah and breathe deeply. I have bigger things to do today.

Now comes the hard part. I pull a pencil and notebook out of my backpack, trying to convince myself of what I need to do. My hands are clammy, and my knee keeps jumping wildly underneath the desk. I’m not weak by any means, but fuck if this isn’t hard. Ugh… I have to do this.

One step at a time.

After a few minutes of subconscious avoidance, I break into the school system to pull up Elijah’s entrance information, much like I did last year. This time I find the scanned copy of his birth certificate and look for his father’s name. Elijah Marques Jackson was born to Isaac and Sylvia Jackson.

I stare at the names in front of me, trying to absorb the fact that the man who called himself Hades is actually Isaac Jackson.

Step one: complete.

Now to find the man who stole my childhood from me. I start at my usual databases but find nothing on him. Sure, there are a ton of people named Isaac Jackson, but none of them are the one I’m looking for. The longer I search, the stronger the queasiness in my stomach gets. But I refuse to give into fear. I have to know who he is. I have to find him.

I search the DMV database in California and New Hampshire and still can't find anything. The tingles in my stomach start to burn as my anxiousness turns into frustration.Why can’t I find anything?I can’t claim to be the best hacker, but I’m not a beginner either. My IQ tells me I should be smart enough to find one fucking man.

I start scribbling down a list of search options and go through them one by one. I keep going until I come across an article about a charity event for orphaned children in New Hampshire’s society pages from a few months ago. I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to read it.

The article is an account of the charitable rich giving to the less fortunate at some dinner with a two thousand dollar a plate price tag. It’s disgusting how rich people use fancy dinners and elaborate events to claim how giving and humble they are. I roll my eyes and keep scrolling through the article.

Towards the bottom, there are pictures of the event, and I instantly lose my breath. I hunch over abruptly like I’ve been physically punched in the gut, scraping my chair against the wood floor, causing unwanted attention.

I will myself to look at the picture’s caption… Senator James Astor, wife Constance Astor, and top corporate attorney Isaac Jackson. They’re all smiling at the camera, and I swear it’s like they’re staring directly at me, mocking me.

I press the monitor power button to get a moment of reprieve as the screen goes black. My mind is racing to unpack what I just saw. Chills race up and down my arms, my breath is irregular, my heart is racing at impossible speeds, and I swear every scarred mark on my skin starts to burn.

Breathe.

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