Indigo Rock

Is it possible to grieve someone before they're gone?

• Fiction
• Horror
• Mystery
• Science fiction
• Anthology

								
When it comes to the subject of grief, people have a lot to say. 

The big, bad G-word. 

They'll always be a part of you, or grief is the last act of love, or my personal favorite, time heals all wounds. Those hackneyed sayings may offer a glimpse of comfort. A gulp of oxygen in the depths of despair, or a break-in-case-of-emergency relief. 

But what no one tells you, is that grief is non-linear. Fickle and fluctuating, like moonlight against rippled waters. Does time heal all wounds? 

To answer that, I'll have to examine my own experience with the big, bad G-word, and how the events at Indigo Rock helped reshape my understanding of it. For better or for worse.


1. DENIAL


"You good, Tadpole?" 

The sound of my brother's voice reeled me out of my daze. God, that nickname made me cringe. 

Especially out here -- a roaring bonfire with dozens of our schoolmates. Football jocks in beer-stained lettermans, ostentatious girls in skimpy skirts pining after them, and the normies; where my brother and I belonged in the high school hiearchy. 

Sure, we were known as "the twins." A hard title to shake in a senior class of eighty students. But we coasted our high school years largely undetected, as much as one could in a podunk, mountain town. 

"Earth to Jess!" Cyrus waved his hand over my face. 

Finally -- my actual name. 

"Hmm?" My eyes snapped toward him. "Sorry, daydreaming again." 

Nightdreaming, to be precise. It was 11:00 on a school night, but none of us cared. This bonfire was our last hoorah before graduating next week and being thrown into the jaws of adulthood. 

"You're the only crackhead I know who can dissociate at a party," said Cyrus, raising his volume above the raucous. His voice sounded better tonight. Frail. But better. 

"And you're the only asswipe who uses words like 'dissociate' and thinks it sounds cool," I poked back, pulling a smirk out of him. It was a muted smile. But cheerier than I've seen him in days. 

Ember sparks kissed my face as we sat around the fire, shooting the shit with other kids. It was increasingly harder to keep up with their slurred words. A symptom of the crushed beer cans littered among the pine needles. 

A couple of them were mine. 

Cyrus wasn’t drinking, though. He couldn't. A hint of jealousy flickered in his eyes. "I'm not jealous," he said abruptly. Shit. He always knew what I was thinking. A twin thing, if you will. 

"Of course you're not." I set my Coors Light down gently. "Listen, are you feeling okay? We can head back if you want." 

That jealousy mutated into resentment. "I already have an overprotective mom, Tadpole. I don't need another one." 

Overprotective was putting it lightly. 

"I know. Sorry. This is new for all of us, cut me and mom some slack." I gave his shoulder a playful punch. 

The resentment dissolved, and his eyes were warm again. As they always were before his diagnosis. "I just need you guys to chill, alright?" he said. "I'm not gonna drop dead tomorrow." 

Guys from the football team yelled chug, chug, chug! at a blonde meathead, double-fisting his Modelos. 

"You better not," I bantered, "you owe me fifty bucks. I had to babysit the McKinley's devil spawn just to fund your concert ticket." He gave me a dismissive hand-wave. "If you die before I get my money back, I'm going to the afterlife and kicking your ass." 

Cyrus snorted a chuckle. "God, you're an asshole." 

I chuckled back. "God, you're an uber dweeb." 

Beyond the flickering of the bonfire, I traded glances with a flushed-face senior -- the meathead everyone was cheering for. He wobbled past his friends and made his way toward us. "Lover boy, twelve o'clock," Cyrus teased. I shot him a shh with a pinch on his side. 

"Morisson twins!" He sat on a log opposite us, a dimple concaved in his cheek. "Haven't seen you two all night. Why are you hiding in the corner, amigos?" 

"Oh, you know. We're the corner type." I face-palmed mentally after that response. I hated that I was so into him. Thee football jock, Reece Hampton? Thirteen-year-old Jess would've given me the biggest side eye. 

"Listen, man," his focus shifted to Cyrus, "me and the boys were talking earlier. We feel bad none of us have... you know, come to you after the news." 

The news. I could tell a pinprick of shock rippled through my brother upon hearing those words. Dreaded words our family of three recieved only a month ago. 

Cyrus let the ripple pass and curved a smile. "It's all good. No worries." 

"Stage three, right?" Reece asked. Cyrus nodded. "Does that mean it's, you know..." 

He scrabbled for the right word. 

"Terminal?" Cyrus interjected. "Nah, I'm not kicking the bucket any time soon. I got a decade or two left in me." 

Reece eased out a sigh. "That's good to hear. Someone's gotta rip out those gnarly guitar solos, am I right?" He was referring to the rock band Cyrus was in -- Roaring Lettuce. They debuted in front of the school's annual talent show and was, as their name predicted, a roaring success. 

"What's up, losers?" A senior that reeked of Purple Haze and mothballs sat down, craning his arm around Reece. An unwelcome gesture, judging by the way he peeled his hand off. 

"What do you want, Jonesy?" Reece slid away as if the guy had anthrax. 

"Me? Nothing, man! The question you should be asking is, what does the universe want?" He gawked into the night sky. Whatever strand he smoked was clearly the good kind. "Cyrus and Tadpole! You know, you guys look less and less twinny the older you get. Are you sure you're twins?" 

Yes, everyone in school called me Tadpole. And no, Cyrus and I did not look alike. Not right away, at least. I inherited our mom's corkscrew curls and sienna skin, while my brother got dad's sharp, European features. 

The joys of being biracial. 

"We're sure, Jonesy," I said. "But who knows, maybe they swapped us at the hospital with two other racially-ambiguous babies." 

His eyes glazed over. "Whoa. Now that's a conspiracy." He leaned closer, hushing his voice to a whisper. "Speaking of conspiracies. Have you guys seen it yet?" 

Reece narrowed his eyes. "Seen what?" 

"Indigo Rock." A wily excitement hooked the corner of his mouth. "It's only about a mile-hike from here. You guys wanna check it out?" 

The call of adventure fell over Cyrus and Reece. Of course the boys were in. But all I could hear were mom's words rattling in my head: Indigo Rock is a place of witchcraft. 

Whether that were true or not remained to be seen. Our mother was the seeing-Jesus-on-a-grilled-cheese-sandwich type, so we took her warnings with a grain of salt. 

"We're in!" Cyrus' pale cheeks grew some color. They'd been paler than usual lately. But one mention of a thrilling exploration, and he could almost pass for half-black. 

"Hold up, chief," I reined him in. "We should probably head back soon. You know, curfew and all?" 

Reece blew a pfft. "Curfew? Curfews are for little baby underclassmen. We're graduating next week, Tadpole! Curfews aren't in our vocabulary." 

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