Hate

After a certain point, when the roads have carried travelers far enough south, Louisiana begins to fade. It doesn’t end in some abrupt, dramatic conclusion- it simply dissolves and evaporates. Far-seen expansions of marsh and barrier islands become more sporadic, giving way to outcroppings of tall grass torn apart by erosion and canal trenching, until the water sneaks up like a thief in the night. Past Delacroix and Pointe A La Hache, GPS systems resign themselves to loss, and navigation becomes a guessing game for those not familiar.

Those hurricane-damaged paths were once familiar to Amador, but in the ages since he’d left, time had eroded his memory as ruthlessly as the invasive salt water had done to the soil. It was impossible for him to recognize any landmark as he drove down the lonely, beleaguered road that morning. Where wetlands had once stretched out for acres, now the only signs of former life were the strangled, barren trunks of long-dead cypress which rose from the water in prayerful agony, crying out to silent heavens as they choked to death on salt and oil.

His sedan’s suspension jolted in protest as it dropped into another pothole, sending more rattles through the cheap plastic panels that lined the car’s dash. Rain was falling with August’s usual fury as the Gulf’s summertime temperature reached its absolute peak, making the humid air all but insufferable and the storms murderous.

Every turn into uncertainty brought more eroded, missing chunks of land that had once supported destitute houses and makeshift shops that sold processed foods and basic tools. Occasionally, a resilient, isolated shack would appear in the torrent, merging like a ghost that had suddenly been recalled from the ether. Piered front porches adorned with tattered flags and scripture-quoting signs would shield wary watchers who eyed the unrecognized sedan with caution and curiosity.

Few ever ventured here without reason, so a relatively new, undented vehicle with out-of-state plates would immediately catch attention.

“Hate this goddamn place,” Amador sighed as he tapped the brakes to read the upcoming sign.

Faded paint whispered lettering in a near-forgotten language, but the warped shapes of previously refined words gave him enough context.

This was the place he’d once known as home.

There used to be power lines running along the edges of the road, but now it was simply an elevated asphalt embankment, flanked by lapping waves that reminded him that the mouth of the ocean was not far away anymore. Civilization was a memory. Land was transient. Water was now and always.

He wasn’t expecting anyone else. This strip of road had once housed dozens of haphazardly constructed homes, supported by rotting beams and faulty foundations. Remnant skeletons of those dwellings stood in solitude as he passed them by.

That one was once his friend’s house.

That was once the place where an abusive father burned his son.

That one had been where a French speaker from Iota had rented.

That yellow one- he didn’t recognize it.

All of those living rooms had once been filled with complete lives and complex souls, but now they dropped in the water, submerged several feet, and waiting for the final destructive blow to come from an eventual storm.

Eventually, after driving deep enough into the water’s embrace, he found his destination.

Faded red called him forth. Rain couldn’t mask the formerly vibrant crimson side paneling. A chill settled in his chest as he looked upon his childhood home. It was hard to explain what he felt. ‘Biting numbness’ was the best he could think of. He should have brought an umbrella.

Thinking it best to keep his small car on the solid ground, he stopped and parked on the road. It was unlikely anyone else would come by, so there was little harm in it, especially against the alternative of potentially sinking into the soggy soil and untended gravel of the front drive.

He’d never wanted to come back here in any capacity. But the current state of his venture had somehow been worse than he’d ever desired. An inevitable conclusion to a lifetime of bad decisions had culminated in a late-night phone call two days ago, and now he was here, once again cleaning up after his older brother. Only this time, he would also be cleaning up his older brother. Or, whatever was left of him.

The door slammed with a thud, and he rushed towards the tilting porch of his previous life. Scents overtook him before the front entrance did. Chemicals seeped through the wood with a condemning wrongness that he knew well, even if he’d wished to forget. Acetone lingered strong enough to strike the back of his teeth, like he’d licked a copper pipe in the sun. Damp wood and burnt oil mixed with ammonia until the concocted smell manifested itself as clawing pressure behind his eyes.

Propane tanks stood statuesque on the small patch of yard that was left. Blue tarp covered a broken, dirtied window, but it wasn’t secure. Rain fell through its weak barrier with ease, dripping into the house interior and further corrupting the built environment with water’s inescapable assault. Mason jars were filled with cloudy residue. A campsite held a dirty saucepan that was still full of crystalline remnants. Tubing draped itself over every surface like flayed arteries from some rubber beast.

Meth production was never graceful. It was cruel.

Meth addiction was never escapable. It was a prophecy to be fulfilled.

Amador’s face turned down in disgust and disappointment as he looked at the last hints of who had been his brother. An uncaring world had sent them down the same path, but when Amador had reached the road’s opening, he’d chosen to take the right turn and escape to Atlanta. His brother had simply turned around and gone back to the house. Just like the water that was now consuming everything, that road and its misfortune had consumed Bal.

A leak in the roof was letting a steady stream of rain fall into the sagging center of the living room lab space. Twinkling, rhythmic plops sang in harmony as they pattered on the soaked carpet, and Amador found himself pausing to listen.

Something in the house felt so unfamiliar. He’d spent sixteen years there, but at that point, he may have well been a burglar breaking in for the first time.

Drops fell.

The pain in his stomach pulled him towards the fall.

He had no desire to go to their old room. He didn’t even want to go to the parish sheriff’s office to identify the remains.

The water caught something bright and neatly shone as it fell.

It was blending into a ribbon of dirty white.

Had the ceiling always been that low when he was small?

His hand lifted without command and slowly reached for the rivulet.

Then another hand appeared beside him and swatted him down.

Amador flinched in shock as he spun to see who had snuck up on him.

“Jesus!” the young man shouted in annoyance.

His skin was tan and rough. His eyes were hollow and sunken. Tattoos covered most of the portions of his face that weren’t hidden beneath the clumps of brittle, undernourished hair.

“Felse! Holy fuck, what are you doing here?! Jesus Christ…” Amador panted as he shook his mind from the haze.

“Don’t seek the water,” the skittish young man replied as his eyes darted around the room.

“It’s okay to let it touch you. Rain. Ground. But don’t touch it yourself.”

Each word had a blurred edge that flowed into the next, as though he was speaking in cursive. The dialect of his Canarian Spanish was as strong as ever. His eyes had once been deep and vibrantly brown. Now, their whites were yellowed, and the brown had faded to mulch. The dark, vacant orbs shifted erratically and frantically as they scanned the environment. Amador felt a pull of sorrow as he looked upon the remnants of the boy he’d grown up with.

“Felse…” he whispered.

Felse still would not stop fidgeting. Dirty nails softly scratched along the bend of his arm, and Amador caught sight of several scarred, festering pockmarks. New bursts of pain tore into his guts as he stood there waiting for his former friend to calm.

“Saw the car. Figured it was you. Ain’t no one else would come this way. Especially in light of what happened.”

Amador frowned. Without intentionally doing it, he began to speak in the language he’d first learned. Syllables articulated themselves with a rusty, unused sensation.

“I never wanted to come back here. And I wouldn’t. If not for…”

He found himself unable to articulate the words. Felse smiled a false, forlorn smile that exaggerated the premature wrinkles that were already lining his once-beautiful face.

“He always said he’d get you back here. One way or the other,” Felse replied.

Rage-filled agony bit at Amador’s insides as the words sat with him.

“Hell of a way to make me come back,” Amador sighed as he looked at the makeshift lab and imagined dropping a grenade into its center.

A gust of wind pushed sheets of rain across the roof, and the whole house seemed to sway. Amador didn’t remember it feeling this vulnerable when they were kids. Creaks rose from the floor, and walls like the strained exhales of a dying bear, and he wondered if it would collapse around them right then and there. He wouldn’t have minded.

Beside him, Felse finally dared to face him fully. Now it was his turn to inspect the man who was once a boy he’d spent every afternoon and so many evenings with.

“You look good,” Felse murmured with a hint of sadness.

Amador inhaled. He wanted to lie and tell Felse the same thing, but they both knew he’d be false. All he could do was nod and meet the gaze of those half-dead eyes he’d once memorized.

They stood there, surrounded by the tilting walls, with nothing but the sounds of the storm and the decaying house filling the near silence.

“Why’d you come here first?” Felse asked.

It was a question Amador himself couldn’t answer. DNA tests had already been done. Dental records were matched, and the body was confirmed to be his older sibling. Secondary samples like toothbrushes and shirts with hair on them wouldn’t be needed. Technically speaking, there was no logistical justification for Amador to be back in that house, beyond a primeval, unrefined drive that had pulled him from the dedicated route to the sheriff station.

Standing there in his former living room, seeing it in the state it had devolved to, Amador wondered if he’d simply needed to come here to say goodbye. After this moment, he would never return. There was nothing left anymore. They were all gone. The water had taken all three of them, and now he was truly alone.

Hate pulled the muscles in the right side of his face into a sneer as he looked at the stained walls.

“Guess I came here so I’d never have to look at it again,” he said in English.

With that, he stepped past Felse and made his way to the door.

Felse started to reach for him then stopped.

“I can go with you,” he offered.

Amador paused and thought it over. It was a kind offer. No matter what the current context was, Felse had always been kind to him. He'd almost mattered to him. And in the end, HE was the one who had found his brother out there in the water, dead but standing rigid with his blood-filled eyes to the horizon. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he accepted.

With Felse’s old truck behind him, Amador left the place he’d once known and prayed that he’d never see it again. Gray clouds hung pregnant with more rain, blotting out the sun and turning the realm purple. He didn’t want to listen to music. He just wanted to be gone from this place.

Then he noticed something peculiar. The yellow house. The one he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t there. In its place was nothing but half-eviscerated land and leftover piers. He wasn’t sleeping well anymore. Certainly not these last couple of nights. He swore he’d seen a yellow house only a half hour ago. All he could do was keep driving. He needed to rest.

Forty minutes and twenty-four miles later, they were at the edge of the unincorporated land, making their way to the St. Bernard parish satellite judicial building. Papers were signed with swiftness. Personal effects were returned: a cheap watch, a wallet with little in it, and a ruined cell phone. Sterile walls stood at appropriate angles as the forms were scanned and processed. An old man sat on a bench and watched the news. Felse kept his head down. Amador wanted to burn everything.

When the act was done, it was time to go to the morgue. Exhaustion was getting to him. Grief was getting to him. The water on the windshield stopped streaming. Droplets hung suspended in time, unwilling to slide upwards across the curvature of the glass. Wiper blades scraped them away. He had to get to the morgue and get this over with. It was time to say goodbye to his brother.