Page 32 of Come Out, Come Out

“Yes, thank you so much.” I clear my throat again, trying to force the awkward conversation out. “I hope it’s okay that I’m here. I’m so sorry for your loss, I just… I became close to Aiden in the short time I knew him, and I couldn’t help but think of him while I was in town. He’s quite unforgettable.” I force myself to make eye contact with her.

“He was special, they both were,” she says fondly, her eyes watering. “I don’t know—”, she takes a shaky breath, “I’m sorry, what is it that you want to know, dear? I’ll try to answer anything I can.”

With her permission, I trudge forward. “I guess, what I’ve heard about how he passed, it doesn’t sound like the Aiden I know. I don’t mean to be crass, but I just wanted to know, was Aiden always . . . violent?”

Her blue-gray eyes flare momentarily, but she considers my question carefully. “Were you his girlfriend?”

“No,” I answer quickly and my stomach lurches. She gives me a curious look but doesn’t pry.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Aiden pulled away so much after he moved. More and more so as the years went on. He didn’t tell us much about his new life, if we could even keep him on the phone long enough to ask.” She lets out a long sigh that feels heavy with regret and longing. “But to answer your question, no, he wasn’t. We were completely shocked by his actions. But we’d never seen Aiden as devastated as he was after Becca’s death. Even five years later, he was still a shell of who he used to be. The two weren’t especially close at the time she passed, but they say losing a twin is an excruciating experience that no one outside of that bond can really understand.” She takes a long sip of her lemonade, the clinking ice filling the otherwise awkward silence. “The police said that they found screenshots on Aiden’s phone, evidence of cyberbullying, that they believe prompted him to . . . do what he did.”

Murder them.I remind myself. “Cyber-bullying him?” That surprises me; he doesn’t seem like the type to give two shits what someone else thinks of him.

“No, Becca. Apparently, these boys–no, these men–they were harassing her almost non-stop for several months before her death. We believe it’s what drove Becca to . . . do what she did.” Erin sounds exhausted, like each word carries the weight of the world.

I feel for her, I do, but I also have to continue to pry. I’m the one who’s very likely living with him, with a murderer, and I won’t know what to do until I have more information—more than what the tight-lipped or speculative media can provide. “Are you saying he killed them because they bullied her to death? Because he couldn’t bear to let it go?”

Lost in memory, Aiden’s mother stares into her glass for what feels like forever. “It’s what helps me sleep at night. But yes, I do believe that. That sounds like my Aiden—always the protective brother. He was a sensitive boy and never shied away from it. He favored music and art over sports and cars and parties. He was proud to express himself doing whatever felt right to him. Often painted his nails and colored his hair on a whim as well.” She traces the wedding band on her finger. “When his sister died, he even took up wearing some of her favorite rings. I always appreciated how sentimental he was.”

Going out of my comfort zone, I reach over and press a hand to her knee. “I’m so sorry to trudge this all up.” And I am, but I’m too selfish to stand up and leave just yet.

“Despite everything, it’s nice to be able to talk about them with someone who isn’t trying to find an angle to write a story or podcast episode.” She shakes her head. “I know what he did was wrong, and I grieve for the other families, I do. But between you and me, they took Becca from us first. They were grown men and they harassed her to the point that it broke her. I know I should condemn him, but I can’t hate Aiden for what he did. God, I wish he hadn’t done it. I wish we could have helped him grieve, got him counseling, something less violent. But what happened, happened, and I might be damned, but I understand why he did it.” A choked sob escapes her and it’s the least I can do to move to sit next to her and comfort her while she cries on my shoulder.

When her tears run dry, she offers to let me see Aiden’s room, and I jump at the chance. This is my opportunity to get to know him outside of what he chooses to project, to see a peek behind the curtain of what makes him tick.

She stands in the hallway and points at the door. “It’s just in there. Feel free to look around. Please just let me know if you decide to take something.” Her eyes shift warily to the door just a few feet further down the hall. When I follow her gaze, I can swear the strand of butterfly crystals hanging from its knob sways ever so slightly. A chill creeps down my back and I shake it off. “There have been some odd happenings around here, things going missing and whatnot. I just want to keep track of what little I have left of them.” With that weird comment, she finally breaks her stare and heads back to the living room.

I wrap my hand around the contrastingly plain knob of Aiden’s door and push inside. The walls are a deep navy blue that’s nearly the same color as the chipped polish he wears. One is covered in vintage band posters and vinyls on display, while the others are mostly bare. The desk in the corner catches my eye and I go over to it.

There’s not a speck of dust, but there are a few random items sitting in a tidy pile on the corner. Two drumsticks sit near the edge, there’s a pair of headphones that are surely dead, and beneath it, a portfolio. Carefully, I pick it up and walk over to the bed covered in a charcoal duvet and sit. With cautious fingers, I open the portfolio and stare at the drippy black and white paintings that take up page after page. Thesefeellike him. Despite the grief and sorrow spilling from each piece, there’s something so rebellious, so powerfullypresentabout the imagery. I stop at one that looks exactly like the tattoo on his arm with the lips and tongue, and run my fingers over the textured paper, tracing the artfully messy lines. They’re eerily beautiful; I fight the urge to take one.

Instead, I lay back on his bed and close my eyes, taking in the essence of him that remains here. The smell of him clings to the comforter and the familiarity of the citrus and earthy notes soothes the uncertainty I’d walked into this house with. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I stand and return the portfolio to where I found it. With one last glance around the room, I shut the door silently behind me. His mother is waiting on the couch, her stare distant.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality, this has been so healing.” I’m not sure if healing is the right word, but I don’t know what else to say.

“Of course, sweetheart. Thank you for letting me speak honestly, I hope that I can trust you won’t share our conversation with anyone.”

“You have my word.” I give her a genuine smile and walk to the door Erin holds open. With a nod, I step back out and down the stairs. My feet carry me to my car and I make the drive home with barely any awareness, still consumed by the conversation I had with his mother.

Is Aiden the cold-blooded murderer the news stories depict, or is he the sensitive, loving son his mom remembers? I honestly don’t know if who he was in life, even in those last few hours, really matters. To me, he is something different altogether. But I need time to figure out what that is.

Aiden

April 30th, 2021 - The Same Day

When Skye returns home, her energy has shifted. There’s still a purposeful wall between us, but the force of it has lessened. For the last month and a half, the protection she placed around herself was powered by anger and betrayal. It felt as if the barrier pounded against me any time I tried to get near her, intent on keeping me as far away as possible. But now, while the barrier is still intact, it’s a much milder presence.

Change is progress.A tiny seed of hope plants itself inside my non-beating heart, but I know we have so far to go, and I’m completely at the mercy of her forgiveness.

May 31st, 2021 – One Month Later

It’s another day watching Skye bury herself in work all day and reading until she can’t keep her eyes open at night. She’s been running from something, spending the last two months doing anything to keep herself from thinking about me.About us. I correct myself, because I’m not giving up on the idea that there will be an us. She’s in self-preservation mode, I understand that. But for me, there’s nothing to fight forbut her. Without her, nothing else matters. So once again, I push the limits of my existence to test the boundary of the veil between us that she’s stubbornly erected. I don’t care if I’m scattered into a million pieces, I just need to make it through. I need her to see me again. If the last thing I see is recognition in her eyes before the final fibers of my being fall to rest at her feet, well then, it was all worth it. I was always a goner anyways. My fingers press upon the blackout tattoo that wraps around the front of my throat and trace the white letters that serve as a reminder.

My futile efforts are interrupted by her grocery delivery. I follow her downstairs and watch her put away the copious amounts of alcohol I know she’ll go through far too quickly. It worries me, how much she’s still consuming. But I can’t intervene. Even with the weakening of the barrier between us as she becomes intoxicated, I can only get closer to her. I can feel it becoming more malleable, the border softening just slightly, when my little wraith thinks of me when her conviction that she needs to stay away from me wavers.

Binx paces in front of me, his little chirping meows grabbing both Skye’s and my attention. Her eyes flick from him to the space I reside in, just in front of the cat. She stops mid-sip of the cocktail she’s made as realization washes over her. Chewing on her cheek, she considers it, smirks, then takes another swig and resumes cooking dinner.

My blood boils faster than her pasta water. She must know the excruciating torture she’s put me through these last few months. She thinks I deserve it, and maybe I do. But at this point, it’s cruel what she’s doing. Especially when she wears next to nothing like she is right now. She looks like a damn vampire, ready to drain the little life that’s left in me. And yet, I eagerly allow myself to be lured in and sucked dry, my eyes devouring every voluptuous inch of her in the luxurious red and black lingerie. Fucking hell, I’m depraved. It’s been too goddamn long. I want to peel down the garter belt and those lacy thigh-highs with my teeth, then pull those panties to the side and edge her over and over until she’s trembling and sweating and sobbing as she begs for release. Having her so close yet still out of reach is maddening. I want her to taste that same desperation. But I’m utterly and wholly powerless to do so. The reality of our circumstances wraps its shackles around me, tethering me here while she’s all the way over there. I thrash, I yell, I push and push, but nothing I do is enough to set me free.

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