At the age of 4, Sebastian Cody, accidentally shot his 4-month-old sister with his fathers gun.
He has lived with the guilt his whole life.
But he is battling dark thoughts.
Bangcomes out in April 18, 2017.
History
My sister is in the memory hole.
She has been disappeared, vanished, eliminated, eradicated.
The memory hole is a conceit from a book they made us read in school,1984.
It feels like something incipient, imminent, pervasive.
Like a fog so cold its a thousand needles in your skin, just barely breaking the surface.
There are no photos of her in the house.
There is no scrapbook.
No baby clothes or stuffed animals or bright, crocheted baby blankets.
My sister is in the memory hole because I killed her.
Im told it was a Tuesday.
Im told it was point-blank range and that I shot her one time.
Which, really, is all it takes.
She was four months old.
Im told Mom got there first, the backdoor being close to the nursery.
Im told Mom screamed and screamed, clawing at her own face at the sight before her.
I have no reason not to believe any of the things Ive been told.
Im told so many things.
I was a child.
It was an accident.
It wasnt my fault.
I was four years old.
Its going to rain.
I like the rain.
I like it ferocious and I like it gentle.
Theres no indication its been ten years, no sign of the morbid anniversary.
Tonight is a tilting night, as Im standing at the window.
She pecks at my hairline and says, I love you.
I dont know when this ritual began.
Some nights, she says it perfunctorily; others, sweetly; still others, dully.
Im sorry, I want to say, but dont.
Every time my mother tells me she loves me, this is what I want to say.
That night, after dark, before the rain, I sneak out of the house.
Mom sleeps soundly and well and without break.
I sneak out of the house, but the truth is, I could simply leave.
I ride my bike out of the neighborhood, out to where Route 27 intersects Brook Road.
The night is overcast, but the streetlights and a gauzy blur of moonlight show the way.
The remnants of the days heat and humidity linger like party guests who stubbornly refuse to get the hint.
I sail through intersections, the traffic lights gone blinking red after midnight.
Halfway there, the rain timidly speaks up, beginning as a hanging mist.
Moisture wicks by; jewels grow on my eyelashes, distorting the meager light.
I wipe at them; they grow back like hydra heads.
Soon, the mist breaks, maturing into a light tattoo of soft, nearly soundless droplets.
My tires, rain-grass-slick, slip and jitter under me.
I wrestle them under control almost unconsciously.
Through a stand of trees, I see it.
I pick my way through an undergrowth of sticker bushes and brambles.
Above, the rain patters on the leaves.
Ahead, it crouches in the dark, a deader dark, cloaked in dirt and rust.
It is still and silent, save for the clink and ping of raindrops, audible even from here.
This is where it will happen.
This is where I will do it.
When the time comes.
Ive fired a gun once in my life.
Ill do it again.
