Veins And Arteries

Roads and veins weren’t that different.

Winding paths cutting through trees and muscle, carrying cars and cells.

Veins carried the chemicals of the drugs in his system. Cars drove on roads to bring those chemicals to the ones who wanted and needed and craved.

It was always dark when he ran on those long lanes. Far off landmarks, like the abandoned mill or the run down Cajun restaurant that once had a baby alligator in a large tank, were always in the distance, forever feeling like they’d be just out reach and his training run would never end. Strides of young, tired legs moved him closer and closer to those markers while his mind wandered like it always did, until the sites were suddenly upon him as though he’d glitched from one end of the highway strip to the other.

He watched twilights and taillights and inhaled slow, deep breaths to fill his body with fresh oxygen.

He’d always hated those fucking Corvette lights on Bobby’s custom Silverado. Subpar body work and a new paint job had hidden the casings of the old bulbs, and the tailgate’s side contours were reduced to smooth lines. Wiring had been run, and the chrome bumper had been replaced with a new customized flare lip that held the instantly recognizable double round fixtures of the Chevy muscle. It was enough cost and labor that at some point it would have simply been easier and smarter to just buy an old Corvette and be done with it.

Even worse, one night after a bender, Bobby had replaced the tailpipe end with chrome tips and punctured the catalytic converter to make his ride louder and more aggressive, instead of simply changing out the exhaust system. Carbon monoxide poisoning, destructive backpressure performance issues, and inspection failures didn’t matter to the twenty year old with too many dollars and too little sense.

He really fucking hated everything about Bobby. The fact he’d started dated his ex girlfriend two days after the breakup wasn’t even the biggest annoyance. The part that had always irked him more than anything was the night those goddamn Corvette lights came roaring by him while he was out on a run. Familiar guttural churns of the straining V6 told him who it was. Then the bag of McDonalds trash struck him in the back of the head.

Running alone in Blanchard was already risky. Heat was suffocating, the roads never had medians, and the populace had a habit of not paying attention to their surroundings as they sped down the quiet country roads to get to distant Shreveport as quickly as possible. If they paid attention, that was often worse.

He ran in split-seamed shorts to help with chafing and the miserable, oppressive heat of Louisiana’s summer. At best he was one hundred and sixty pounds. Purple dye remnants still hung in the edges of his shaggy hair and his nails were painted black as often as they were bare. In the scope of what sort of masculinity was tolerated in rural Caddo Parish, he was well past the threshold.

So being hit in the head by litter was nothing new. Once, a glass bottle of half drank beer had hit his skull and caused his teeth to hum with a taste like rust for a few days. As he ran that night and his brother’s best high school friend roared by and struck him with fast food waste, he swore loudly and held up a middle finger, hoping it would cause the young man to stop. He’d not had a good fight in months and even though he was drenched in sweat and mostly naked, the idea of feeling Bobby’s orbital socket crack beneath his knuckles was quite appealing.

But Bobby didn’t stop. Instead, a howl of inebriation’s stupor spilled from the window along with the stench of cheap weed and unfiltered exhaust he so very much hated. Just then, a raccoon panicked from middle division marking and tried to scurry to the brush line along the highway edge, and the red circular lights veered towards it instead of away. He watched Bobby intentionally crush that grey, black and white creature, and a few minutes later, he felt tears in his eyes and a tension in his jaw as he pulled the pulpy remains off the road by the remnants of the tail.

From then on, he thought of Bobby that way. Not the fucking Corvette lights and poisonous exhaust trick that supposedly sounded cool. Not the one who’d first introduced him and his brother to heroin or pills. Not the one who’d intentionally singled out his girlfriend instead of any of the dozens of other teens who didn’t know better. Not the sex tape of that same girl which he’d digitally copied and sold to friends, even though she was only fourteen and had tried to kill herself when she found out.

Bobby killed innocent animals and laughed about it. If he ever had the chance to hurt Bobby, he would.

Years passed and he kept running down that same strip of forgotten highway toward Greenwood and Mooringsport. Most days he didn’t think about the raccoon or Bobby. College kept him distracted enough and those runs were now for scholarships and D1 races he needed to do well in to keep away from student loans. Plus, his brother’s addiction had gotten worse.

By whatever cruelty of the universe, he’d personally shaken off substances like a cold chill on a winter morning. His brother hadn’t. Generations of men on both sides of their family had suffered under the haunting presence of chemical dependency, and his brother had unfortunately drawn the lot to be this generation’s sacrifice.

Things had gotten bad enough that his parents no longer spoke to his brother. It had been two Christmases since they’d all been together, and it seemed like that would be how it would stay, now that his brother was living with Bobby and a few others in Ruston, over an hour away in the best forgotten nothingness that was northeast Louisiana.

Damp air clung to his skin and pulled his bangs onto his brow. He frowned more now and his parents were quieter, hiding their shame from church and family like good southerners. One unifying truth about the region choked by humidity was that no one ever spoke about their struggles. It pissed him off more than he realized.

Up ahead, four round lights were shining red beneath a stoplight. Two circles sat on opposite sides of the bumper. It was an actual Corvette, not Bobby. Still, he thought of Bobby and of his brother, and decided to turn back.

Tired, slightly dehydrated footsteps plodded along with steady and efficient thuds. Grass was turning brown from the July heat, he could see the crisp deadness even at night. There was a matte stiffness in the way it didn’t catch the moonlight compared to how it did in the rain soaked Spring months. Trailers and car ports slowly slid by him as he made his way back home in the still darkness. Crickets sang. The occasional bark told him some guard dog laying outside had sensed him and was now letting him know it was alert.

That forest where he’d come from, it was still green and dark and the air felt cooler when he was in its embrace. He hated running. He hated the slow ache of it all.

Veins and roads carried him home.

An hour later, his long run was done and he was at his family doorway. When he walked inside, cool air pulled his skin tight and coated him in a shiver as the sweat slid along exposed skin. He heard his mother sobbing. Frantic pacing signaled his father getting dressed.

“Your brother had an overdose and is in an E.R. in Monroe. They stabilized him, but we’re heading there now,” she muttered without even looking at him.

She looked older. A few years ago she’d seemed quite young and vibrant for her age, but in that low light, her cheeks were harsh and hollow and the grey strands in her hair stood out more against their darker peers. Shakes moved from her ribs and into her hands as she tried to calm herself. He felt utterly ridiculous standing there in that state, but he forced himself to speak before leaving.

“I’ll get dressed,” he said.

“No,it’ll be okay- just stay here with your little-“

“What if it isn’t okay?” he asked coldly as hundreds of images of bulging eyes and vomit trapped in throats slammed into one another in his mind.

Tears bit at the edges of his eyes but he pushed them away and made his way up stairs, where his father was waking the youngest of them.

Soon, they were heading east, and almost two hours later they reached Monroe’s city center and found their way through the aged hospital hallways. Sterile scents of cleaners did their best to erase the death and disease that was all around them. The doors creaked in their grooves and rattled softly as they pulled open. Moisture covered the glass panes so completely that the inside was hidden behind the frosted, misty haze, reducing the interior to nothing more than ill-defined shapes and hints.

None of them spoke beyond what was needed to say to the staff. They checked in, got their stickers with their names, and made their way to the waiting room, where a set of small televisions was loudly playing sports highlights. When things had calmed and a breathing tube was inserted, he was cleared. They were allowed to visit him in pairs so their parents went first, then the siblings.

As he moved through the hallway, he looked at the faded artwork on the walls and wondered if every floor had the same prints that were once vibrant and now reduced to varying shades of blue. He didn’t mean to, but his gaze stole a glance at the young nurse’s backside and elbow tattoo as they walked. The younger one whispered that they were sad and didn’t like this place. He agreed and put his hand on their back.

Beeps called them into the room, where wires and lines ran from machines and into the one he’d grown up with. Newer, poorly done tattoos covered his chest, hands, and neck. Seeing him caused a heaviness of grief to come crashing into his ribs that felt like they may crack at any point and puncture his lungs with their jagged edges. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He didn’t know how it was supposed to be, but when he stood there shivering and in pain from the knots in his stomach and liver, hearing the slow breathing assistance and medical chimes, he thought nothing more than it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was mad. At all of them. The church they’d grown up in that had taught so much shame. Those family members that had passed down their curse without ever taking any effort to address it. All those other southerners who were also masking their own personal struggles behind smiles and gentility. His parents. His brother. Himself. But most of all, for whatever reason, he stood there hating Bobby and that goddamn truck most of all.

Words were whispered to his older brother and faint flickers from his eyelashes were taken as signs that they were heard. Everything was cold even though it wasn’t. Spasms shook through his entire frame and he didn’t know if it was the nerves, the unnatural chill, or the hatred.

When he stormed out, he walked past his family without speaking and made his way to the parking lot. For a moment, he wanted to hug all of them and do his part to try to mend that moment. He wanted to ask his parents what they said to him. But he wanted to kill Bobby most of all. So he stood in the yellow-lit parking lot and watched the steam rising from rooftop vents, and he bit the back of his bottom lip and waited. Some time later his family joined him and once more no one said anything, which only infuriated him even more.

It was three in the morning. The sedan pulled into the driveway and they all got out exhausted, with his father remarking about letting work know he’d be late that morning. He wouldn’t miss work of course, that was inconceivable. He’d just be late.

While they unloaded and tended to getting the youngest back into bed, he went into their bedroom. On the backside of their closet was a simple case that was hidden by coats and locked with a password that the little one didn’t know. He did. When he unlocked it, there were stacks of legal documents, birth certificates, the mortgage documents, and a pistol. Nothing grandiose, just a remnant of American-coded protection his father had bought twenty years ago when they’d lived in apartments in a rough part of the world’s murder per capita leader.

He took it and checked the magazine. Copper alloy jackets of 9 mm bullets glistened back at him. He moved swiftly, double-checking the safety before hiding the small black firearm in his waistband and locking the door once more. Just as he left their room, they came around the corner. He didn't look up.

“Goodnight. Love y’all,” he said.

Then his mother somberly called him by his name. Not a nickname or abbreviation. There was a melancholic defeat to her tone.

“Did we fail… at everything?” she asked.

He shook his head and did his best to smile.

He missed his family. They were right there, but he missed who they’d been. When he was younger, it was all easier. There were things he’d just misunderstood, sure, but there was a lightness and clearer vibrance to the world. When he recalled how life had been, he viewed it all with a diffused, bokeh’ed hindsight that was partially falsification, partially a remembrance of the world before LED’s, and partially truth. Whatever they were in now, it couldn’t be the end of them.

Dreamless sleep moved quickly enough and he also called his job at the supermarket to let them know he wouldn’t be in today. Not late. Absent.

To be safe, he’d put on his uniform so that he could easily lie to his parents if needed. They were still asleep when he left so it wasn’t necessary and removed the red shirt upon getting to his car.

Nerves caused his hands to shake as he drove, but his mind was calm. To his own small surprise, he found himself playing music and even humming along with the occasional chorus. By any other measure, save for the pistol safely tucked in the center console, this would have been a normal drive.

Dawn was flat and orange as it broke over the treeline. After an hour, the pines thinned and gave way to smaller, broader cypress and oaks that stood about thirty feet high. Hills rolled along with minimal traffic, and before he knew it, he was in the neighborhood where his brother lived with Bobby and three others.

Metal fences leaned, rusted and gapped. Roofs were divided from the consistent wear of strong winds and heavy rains. Front lawns were littered with half dissected vehicles that were now overgrown with flowers and weeds like the background decoration of an apocalypse. Then he was at the house. Bobby’s truck was there.

It was strange to him that he was not fearful or doubting. Even as his hands shook, his mind was calm. He exited the car and took a few swift steps to the stained door, and immediately opened it, not bothering with a knock or ring. Unsurprisingly, it was unlocked.

Inside, a small flat screen was still showing the loading screen of a video game. Smoke’s remnants moved into his mouth and nose. A body was shuffling beneath a tattered quilt over on the nearby sofa. Someone approached from the hall, and his body reacted before his mind did.

Whoever was in that house with him now, if they were a man, they were in his way. Wide shoulders turned the corner and he was greeted by Bobby one of his brother’s high school friends. Before either could process, his fist was hooking into Bobby’s throat with a meaty thud that caused the young man to double over and claw at his neck in shock. Then his foot was angling up and slamming forward, catching the side of Bobby’s slacked jaw. The lack of resistance told him it broke, and Bobby’s gargling shout confirmed it.

Bruises on arms now had companions on the coming bruises on his face. Dirtied veins were now flooding with adrenaline. Addiction’s slow acts of self harm were being interrupted by external violence, and that was a wholly different sort of pain.

Another stomping kick sent Bonny’s head into the floor-mounted air unit, and his teeth chipped against the flat metal.

That could have been enough, but he didn’t want it to be. While his victim stumbled, still processing everything, he grabbed him by the crown of his head, seizing the hair from its roots. Bobby yelled out just as one more swing guaranteed that the jaw was snapped. Then another confirmed the bridge of his nose was crushed. Then another was thrown simply for all the other grievances of their miserable time knowing one another.

The friend shouted and reached for him, but he drew the pistol from his waist and loaded a round then frantically angled the barrel at all of them. By now the figure had awoken from his drug-induced sleep, and two shaking hands pulled from the blanket edge in surrender. Bobby was slumping on the floor as he settled the aim on him.

Their eyes met briefly, and he saw that Bobby was truly afraid. It was the sort of fear that existed in the depths of the dialated pupils, which seemed as though they were turning from black to grey as they stared at what might be their death. That could have been enough, but it wasn’t.

“If you ever come near my brother again, I will saw your entire fucking family’s faces off and make you watch me skull fuck them to death, do you understand me? I will eat you alive, piece by piece.”

Bobby never looked away from the gun. He didn’t shout his threat, which concerned them all even more. He’d always been wild, once throwing a senior down a flight of stairs over a light scuffle. They knew he was an angry kid, and now they were in his sights. When the words had settled, Bobby nodded in acceptance. He pulled the trigger, not out of necessity or defense, but out of hate. Sharp, acrid scents filled his nose as the metallic clack thundered through the small room and Bobby began to scream at the agony of the bullet shattering his kneecap.

Another trigger pull.

Another clack.

Another burst of the smoky, bitter scent.

Another bit of flesh exploding.

Skin tore and veins ripped to shreds within the bend of Bobby’s right arm, where bruises and needle marks had long carved their home. That forearm was already at risk of rotting and now it was at risk of being severed. He almost smiled at the chaos.

Wails of agony filled the room as he quickly turned and made his way back to his car.

Half an hour later, he pulled over on the side of the highway and vomited. Fear began to creep into his guts and he considered the possibility of retaliation. But then he recalled the terror on Bobby’s face, and he trusted that such things likely wouldn’t happen.

In the scope of autonomy and responsibility, he knew his brother had done most of the damage himself. It wasn’t hard to understand that he’d simply condensed all of his anger into blame on Bobby, but he didn’t feel bad for it. Bobby was a piece of shit, and that was enough.

Addiction wasn’t cured by such violent measures, unfortunately. His brother got clean from heroin, but polls haunted him for years, until he replaced that with alcohol. Sobriety came and went, and they all were suddenly one day much older than he remembered. He moved far away, leaving behind those towering pines and winding roads that led to nowhere of importance. Cartilage damage and a meniscus tear his last year of college made sure he never ran again, but he didn’t even have a desire to.

The great pines never changed. Any time he returned to Caddo Parish, their broad trunks stood resolute and eternal, with bark carrying memories of a thousand wonders and tragedies no different than his own family. They said water remembered things, so he assumed it was the same for those ancient trees.

One day, when his hair had thinned and his rage had long since dissipated, he found himself stopping at a gas station off the edge of I-49 in Natchitoches. He was heading South, and the air was cool with early winter whispers. His wife smiled and stretched as she turned her face to the wintry sun. New Orleans was still hours away, but a warm cup of French roast would be welcome. The pump was started and they made their way to the store.

As they approached the door, a weakened body limped through the metal frame, exiting with his head down. A cane tapped and an amputated arm pressed its stubbed elbow against the glass to keep it open. He reached to grab the door to help the fellow, and their eyes met. A frightened, shocked whimper carried from the middle-aged man’s lips.

Life’s hardship was etched in the wrinkles of his once proud face. Bobby almost tumbled over himself as he did his best to move on as quickly as he could without saying anything. His leg didn’t bend as he escaped to the nearby old Korean sedan that had a spare tire on the front passenger side. For a moment, he felt remorse. Only for a moment.

“What was that?” she asked, confused.

“No idea,” he replied.