Secrets Beneath the Surface

C h a p t e r 01

An unwelcomed feeling of nausea overcame me as I climbed the steps to the Fisher's porch.

I practically tripped on the last step, but lucky regained my balance last minute. I hesitated, biting my lip, wondering whether I should do it or not. Finally, with a long drag of breath, I reached over and pressed the doorbell. It was a matter of seconds before the door got whipped open.

Mrs. Fisher stood in front of me, attempting a smile. Oddly enough, she looked composed and solidified, almost like an act. Her words are fluid and smooth when she said, "I was waiting to see if you'd come, Elliot."

"Good evening, Mrs. Fisher," I returned her small smile, "Sorry for not attending the funeral earlier today."

"It's fine," she looked down at the wooden porch, "I wasn't expecting you to show up. After all, it was an open casket funeral."

"Right." An awkward silence settled in as we both shifted from foot to foot, our eyes glancing across each other's in an uncertain way.

Almost as if she forgot, she grinned, stepped aside and said, "Won't you come in?"

I took a cautious step inside, and almost immediately a cold feeling crept beneath my skin and settled in. The hair on my back stood, and I slightly shivered as if a cold breeze swept by.

"Well," Mrs. Fisher's voice interrupted my thoughts. "I know it's rather hard on you, but I wanted to show you something Devin left before he -" her voice wavers a little, " - he passed."

She quickly brushed past me, went into the living room, and returned with a paper folded into a small square. Her hands trembled as she passed it to me, her eyes staring straight at me, pained and brimmed with unshed tears.

I looked down at the piece of paper, it's edges crumpled and slightly ripped. I had an odd sensation from just looking at it.

Suddenly it dawned on me.

"Is this," I examined the paper, "his suicide letter?"

Mrs. Fisher nodded, her eyes squeezed shut, her brows furrowed, and her lips completely sealed. She was afraid that if she spoke a word she'd break down. I gulped, my heart shattering my ribs from how hard it was beating. My fingers shook as I willed them to pry the paper apart.

I almost didn't recognize Devin's handwriting. His usual neat, small, printed writing was sloppy and messy, as if he wrote in a hurry.

I whispered the letter to myself. And when I was done, I reread it. And again. And again. And again.

If this came off as selfish or whatever, I didn't care. But I didn't know which hurt most; the fact that he didn't tell me any of this, or that I wasn't mentioned at all.

And I did the only thing humanly, most sanity filled thing possible that was on my mind.

I threatened to rip it apart.

Mrs. Fisher tried to grab it from me, but I was too quick for her. I was already racing towards my car by the time she reacted. I leaped inside, locked the doors, and started the engine. Mrs. Fisher pounded against the glass of the window, her yelling muffled.

"Give it back, Elliot! Give it back!"

I gritted my teeth, my sight starting to swim.

"Elliot! That's my son's! Please!"

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white.

"It's all I have left of him!"

I pressed on the gas pedal and I was off. The car window was becoming streaked with raindrops. The streets started blurring together. The trees and the grass and the signs and the streetlights and the cars and the dark blue sky started morphing into a puddle of darkness and endless pits of black. And I was suddenly crying, suddenly was screaming, suddenly was yelling and thrashing and threatening to rip the letter apart.

I parked at my street, jumped out, and fell onto the grassy lawn. I continued to scream, continued to cry, continued to yell. The knees of my pants were becoming muddy and messy. I threw my hands onto the dirt, my fingers caked in mud. But I continued to dig my fingers into the thick, sloppy mush, not thinking clearly.

I began to curse Devin, cursed him for his foolishness, cursed him for his selfishness, cursed him for causing me this pain.

What did I ever do to deserve this? What did I ever say to deserve this?

I tilted my head up to the sky and screamed. I screamed louder than I ever had before, I cried harder than when my mother left me, and I cursed enough to last a lifetime.

It was about an hour before I felt hands pulling me up, my soaked body leaning against someone's torso. It was about an hour before I felt myself being tucked in for the first time since my mother left. It was about an hour before I felt someone's lips touch my forehead lightly for the first time in a long time.

My Dad left the room, but not before peeking through the doorway a final time and whispering, "I love you, son."

~ ~ ~

At around a quarter to one a.m., I suddenly heard some shuffling in the kitchen right beneath my room. Dad was there, and he was probably going to stay down there puffing on the cigarettes he thinks we don't know about, his mind replaying memories of my mother.

My mother.

My mother who kissed me goodnight and read my stories and pushed my damp hair back from my sweaty forehead.

My mother who got tears of joy in her eyes when she found out that I got top score in the National Test out of my entire school.

My mother who divorced from my dad when we found out she was cheating.

My mother who married another man and moved a few blocks away from us.

My mother who now has a swollen belly and a smile that never slips off her face.

My mother who has, once and for all, decided that we aren't good enough for her and is determined on starting her new family.

That's my mother. The woman that raised me for the first eleven years of my life.

Dad says he's alright, that he's fine without her, but the lingering scent of smoke left in the air during the mornings and his suspiciously increasing work hours say otherwise.

'Cause Dad didn't smoke when my mother was here. And ever since she had left, our bond was growing weaker and weaker by the minute. Guess my mother's leaving screwed everything over.