The car door closes behind June with a startling thud, my train of thought harshly derailing into a valley of watered-down lust and meticulously camouflaged repulsion. I cast one more brief glance at the dull panorama in the distance that has so seductively spread itself out for me, but could never harbor the power to reach through, for I am here — a vacant body trapped behind bars that are made out of stained glass, a body that resists temporary temptation.
“They bought it. All of it.“ She chuckles. I turn to her, eyes sheepishly fixed on her wings, because the mist of innocence they emit paints me reminiscent of what her scent used to be. “I’m sorry I took so long.“
“Don’t be —“ I lie, “Have you found what you were looking for?“
“Oh, you won’t believe what I found!“ June looks at me in an ecstasy of spitefulness — an almost child-like glee that is mercilessly drowned by the soberness of the reality we are existing in. “The whole household commits minor offenses from time to time. But Fred and Nick really take the cake.“
“What did they do?“ I ask.
“They fucked me.“ I choke on my spit. She notices my reaction, leans in and forcefully presses her chapped lips against mine in a selfishly comforting manner. I find myself moaning to an irretrievable memento, a reality in which we dearly love one another, a reality in which June makes pancakes for breakfast while wearing my flannel over her naked body. “You know I love you, Luke. But what had to be done, had to be done.“ Wrong. “Let’s not argue in front of our daughter, okay?“ She points to the empty car seat next to us.
“You’re right.“ I say. She pretends that Hanna never died. I hear a thunderstorm approaching — the tender knuckles of petrichor noisily knocking on the roof of the car in a staccato whisper of circumstantial fatalism. I remember holding June, both raindrops and tears running down her cheek. Her motherly fragility and her anger toward herself rashly turned into blind hatred and self-abandonment. Her morbid jealousy prompted her to call them shredders. And much to her delight, the other members liked this idea. “Have you gathered enough evidence to get them arrested?“
“Of course. I’ve got plenty of audio tapes. I’m going to call Glen now.“ A name that makes me shiver, a name that piercingly and ruthlessly wanders over my skin, like scratching on a chalkboard. Glen — a sociopathic and narcissistic entity caught in a charismatic and endearing vessel that is richly ornamented with masked xenophobia, misogyny and a degradation kink. He is the head of the Eyes, June’s superior.
“Give him my best regards.“ I say sarcastically.
„Will do.“ She laughs and holds her phone to her ear, “By the way, I met Moira yesterday.“
“How is she doing?“
“That bitch is broken. Finally. I don’t think she’s ever going to get in my way again.“ She seems relieved, “Hi Glen.“
While her voice echoes through the far back of my mind like a worn out kite of skinny love, a kite that is struggling to keep steady amid the violent wind of fractured promises and glamorized despair, I recall the times when we were happy, when life was good. I should have stopped June from joining this organization that masqueraded as a support group — I could have saved her. I could have saved everybody.
“Want to go out today? To celebrate the success of my mission?“ June asks me in a thick, husky voice that I would've once wanted so desperately to catch and keep in a jar, like it’s a firefly. But, you see, the thing with fireflies is, they only flash for a certain amount of time. The happiness I’ve shared with June is just as evanescent to me.
“Sure.“ I glimpse at my watch. It’s almost time. The closing credits that are hiding behind a monochrome landscape of past eagerness, present defect and future ruin are quickly passing by behind the window as — a collision, a crash. My neck is whipped forward. I hear June screaming. The walls are are spinning and I am slowly losing grasp on reality. Quite suddenly, it’s silent.
“Luke!“ I feel a warmth dripping down my temple, a warmth that embraces me from within and fulfills me, a warmth like the June that grows in my remembrance like a withered baby’s breath. “Luke!“ She calls again. “Luke, for fuck’s sake, help me!“ I smile at her.
All of this feels like a halcyon dream in which I am adrift, but not lost— for I am long gone, for I am able to breathe again — we are lucid now; we are blue dried up acrylic paint frivolously gushing out on a canvas of sunlight that gently filters through the cracks of the cumulonimbus that has been swallowing our unconditional and sincere love up until now. We are lucid now.
“Praised be.“