The Eyes of September

Part Three: The End

Chapter Twenty-Two:

Seven – the musician

He was a hobo, he was a busker, he was a hitchhiker, he was a wayfarer. He was sane. He was free.

Or so he told himself.

He was standing at a gas station. He was buying Monster and Cinnabon rolls and he had twenty dollars left in his wallet and five hundred in his bank account. The Adirondack Mountains were a five hour bus trip away.

Seven boarded the Greyhound bus and took a seat – as was his habit – at the back. He plugged in a soundtrack of Korn and The Animals and Echo & the Bunnymen and Pennywise. The eclectic mix of tracks kept his mind from wandering; he focused on the smear of rain against the glass and lost himself in lyrics. His guitar case kept prodding his feet. Unease blanketed his stomach.

At Lake Placid, the bus stopped. He got off, duffle bag over his shoulder and guitar in hand, followed by one lone traveler. The center of downtown was at once quieter and busier than he had expected. It wasn't the solace he had been looking for; sticking to the darker side of roads and alleyways, he made his way to the outskirts.

The air was clean. The sky was bruised purple and the mountains were thick-spined and proud in the near distance. Trees shadowed the moon. Cottages and small lodges were tucked at uneven intervals along the paved path. As he walked on, the pavement became dirt and clouds rose around his feet. Weariness set in.

But he was alone. He was free. For the first time in months, his hands were not trembling.

It was midnight – or so he thought, from his glimpses at the sky – by the time he stumbled across an uninhabited cottage that was isolated behind a cluster of tall pines. The darkness had begun to unnerve him, fraught with hooting owls and rustling bushes and the distance howl of a coyote or wolf. Chills had sunk into his bones.

The porch was empty and the lights were off. No cars, bikes, or motorcycles stood near the side of the cottage. Cobwebs snaked over the steps, catching on the toes of his boots and then his hands, as he tried to brush them away.

He turned the doorknob. Open.

Stepping inside his eyes adjusted, picking up on the darkened shapes of furniture, the shadowed picture frames that reflected moonlight. He set down both his bags. Pain screamed from his shoulders, his feet, and his legs. Boot by boot, he left a trail in his wake. The sitting room, too, was empty. Water dripped from the kitchen faucet; when he peered into the sink he saw a wide brown puddle and splotches of rust.

It seemed like the coast was clear – until he stepped back into a pool of light and, from the loft above his head, a clicking noise sounded. Seven looked up into the barrel of a gun and felt every panicked nerve in his body fire at once.

Freedom, he thought, this is not what freedom looks like.

He yelled out – what was supposed to be don't shoot – and a ragged voice yelled back something that sounded like, "If one more kid comes in here drunk, I'm going to call the park rangers..."

But the need for a park ranger seemed minimized by the half-choked scream in Seven's throat and the half-choked cry of fear from the stranger above. As he lunged forward the butt of the gun kicked back.

And he was lying on the ground staring at the black hole in his stomach, wondering what fatality felt like, if this was a fatality, and that freedom had been a strange quest to seek. Because he hadn't been searching for freedom in death, when he had set out, but that – it seemed – was what had found him.

He pressed his hands to darkening cloth on his abdomen. Numb shock gave way to pain that melted the marrow in his bones and pitched flames of fire in his body, a network that radiated and spread and pooled from the site of the bullet.

Blackness set in, degrees of dark like a kaleidoscope edging out his vision. Accidental suicide, accidental suicide. He couldn't breathe. He didn't have to. Young death, young death.

Seven closed his eyes and forgot to be afraid.

***

The news reports called it an accident, as he had thought in his blood-soaked haze. The reporters said it was tragic and his fans staged a vigil and his bandmates left Nashville temporarily.

There were many different versions of the same general story: they all said that his life was a miracle, and that it was incredible he was still alive.