Page 1 of Revenge At Raleigh High
1
SILVER
Samuel Adrian Hawthorne
Devoted Son.
Beloved Friend.
Talented Sportsman.
A Bright Light, Taken Too Soon.
Here, we weep, but in Heaven, the Angels rejoice, for one of their own has returned home to them.
The midnight forest breathes deep around the cemetery, drawing the night into its lungs, its mournful limbs swaying on a cold breeze as I look down upon the grave of Samuel Adrian Hawthorne. The frozen ground feels like it’s pulsing beneath my feet, the beat of a somber drum rising through the non-existent soles of my Chucks, but it’s only my own blood protesting the fact that I’ve been standing here too long. It’ll be time to leave soon enough, but tonight I’ve come here to face a demon, and I won’t go until it’s slain.
Behind me, I hear the muffledshushhing of waves lapping at the shore of Lake Cushman. Winter’s arrived in full-force, it won’t be long before the lake begins to ice over, but for now the water remains free to roll pebbles and rake the sands at the beachline.
Mallory Hawthorne, Sam’s mom, refused to have her son buried in the Raleigh Gardens of Rest Cemetery on the outskirts of town. No one needed to ask why, but Mallory went around Raleigh exclaiming loudly to anyone within earshot that she wouldn’t have her poor murdered son fertilizing the same ground as the sick bastard who’d killed him. Three times she’s brought a petition before Mayor Griffith, demanding that Leon Wickman be exhumed and cremated, so no one will ever have to set eyes on his headstone again. Three times, Mayor Griffith has dismissed her, asking her to let the matter rest, but the chances of that happening are negligible. Mrs. Hawthorne keeps on doing her rounds through Raleigh, going door-to-door with her list of signatures and addresses, and each time she shows up at the town hall, her petition has gotten longer. It’ll only be a matter of time.
Some kind of night bird lets out an eerie, plaintive wail, deep within the forest, and a cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck. I don’twantto be here. I don’t enjoy hanging out in cemeteries in the middle of the night for the fun of it. I was drawn here, though, an undeniable force pulling on my insides, tugging me through the lateness of the night as I drove the Nova up the long, winding roads that lead toward the lake, the car’s headlights guiding me toward Sam.
Devoted Son.
Beloved Friend.
Talented Sportsman.
My eyes follow the sharp line and curve that forms the letters of each engraved word, knowing without the faintest glimmer of doubt that Mallory Hawthorne believes these statements to be true.
It’s amazing how little parents really know about their children. They give birth to this creature, who sucks them dry physically, financially and emotionally. As the child grows, beginning to form, developing character traits and personality quirks that make it a unique cog in the machinations of society, it becomes very difficult for mothers and fathers to really see the teeth that form on that cog. Their rose-tinted view paints their children with all the beautiful gifts theywishto bestow on them: kindness; loyalty; honesty; intelligence. The blind love they feel for their child builds them up to be this blameless, perfect being, brimming with so much potential that their offspring might as well be the second coming of Christ.
So, when they find out that their blameless, perfect child is really a monster, it’s no great surprise that they won’t accept the truth. Some cogs don’t fit into the places assigned to them. They make the machine skip, their teeth too sharp and too grating. They are square pegs that won’t fit in round holes. That doesn’t mean that the determined and the persistent won’t keep on trying to jam them into place, of course. Mallory Hawthorne will believe her son was a saint until the day she fucking dies.
I suppose hewasquite good at sports.
“Sammy just got back from surfing in Hawaii. D’you think he’s hot?”
The memory rushes me like the cold water of the Cushman tide. I try not to let my mind catch on it, but the sights and sounds of that night are bright as comets when they flare across the landscape of my mind and just as unstoppable: Sam, standing shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, face split with a grin as he stoops down to do a rail of coke. Jake standing behind me, grinding his hard dick up against my ass as he trades suggestive looks with his friends. Sam, queuing up Sublime and cranking the music loud to mute my screams. Sam, handing Jake the razor he uses to cut away my clothes. Sam, leaning his bodyweight against me, holding me down as Jake paws at my naked body. Sam taking his turn, climbing on top of me, his breath reeking of whiskey, eyes unfocused, that terrible, mindless grin still twisting his features like some circus clown maw.
And then, after all of that was over, Sam, downstairs at the party…
I blink rapidly, gouging my fingers into my palms, hoping that the pain will shock me out of the past, but it’s too late.
I recognize the song blasting through Mr. Wickman’s state of the art, thirty-thousand-dollar speaker system, but I’m not really hearing it. It’s impossible to hear much over the high-pitched ringing in my ears. My mouth still finds the shape of the lyrics as they pump out into the living room, though. My lips work of their own accord, silently repeating the chorus of the song like a prayer. I feel nothing. Even when I trip on the last step of the stairs, twisting my ankle as I lurch forward, barely catching my footing before going sprawling across the dove-grey marble floor in the foyer, I feel absolutely nothing.
The house is packed to the rafters. There are faces here I don’t recognize. Or…maybe I do know them. Everyone looks unfamiliar as I stumble toward the front door, bile boiling in my stomach, choking me, clawing its way up the back of my throat.
“Silver? Silver, Jesus, what the hell are you wearing? Is that one of Mr. Wickman’s shirts?”
There’s a girl standing in front of me. Fine wisps of her beautiful red hair are stuck to her forehead, curled, captured in the sheen of her sweat. She’s wearing a royal blue dress that makes her eyes look as bottomless as the sea. Her pupils are blown wide open.
Halliday. Her name is Halliday.
She’s one of my best friends, and she’s frowning at me like she’s just realized something is very, very wrong. “Silver? Oh my god, Sil, is that blood?”
Robotically, I look down at where she’s pointing. I’ve been slumped in the bottom of the shower for…I don’t know how long I sat there with the freezing cold water hammering against my skin. I thought I’d gotten it all. I thought I’d cleaned away all of the blood. The insides of my thighs are slick with it, though.
