orange lines split the darkness as red dots spiraled a vortex like blood drawn to a shower drain. the shapes trembled to the vulgar beat as they corkscrewed and vanished into the collapsing galaxy of color. below the projected visualizer, seven garbage bags spewed malignant gas through identical red bows, feeding the black hole from their slouching lineup. jules felt weightless, unwinding, as if the colors were dragging her soul from the couch to an alternate reality.

the music wasn't music, but SCREAMO; sickening chords and half-melodies that underscored the hateful rant of a spastic singer. the song spurred the visualizer's sinister personality and throbbed through the heart and soul of jules (back in the day, she liked this band.)

the bedroom was lit only by the projector's psychedelic beam and the sporadic flash of purple lightning.

gabe sat at the opposite end of the couch, head on the armrest and trademark journal resting on bent knees, writing his suicide note in the company of three half-empty liquor bottles. he chewed another blunt as he penned his final goodbye; the stump of cigar seemed all-too natural between his knuckles.

two hours ago his parents left for an irresponsible night at the opera, leaving their child to execute his master plan in peace. gabe made jules wait in the van while he said his goodbyes, but she spied from tinted windows as he hugged his mother and father beneath the drizzle. to their credit, they DID seem hesitant to leave, but the tickets were a gift from their son and they couldn't turn down the kind gesture.

after they left, gabe cried. jules didn't see it, but the evidence was pink and inflamed across his face when he finally retrieved her from the car.

now she sat on the couch with her ankles squeezing the backpack. rachel's cellphone was easily accessible in the side pocket with 911 waiting on speed dial. as gabe sank deeper into his letter, jules toyed with the black earring in the folds of her blue-jean pocket and twitched when cracks of thunder bested the music.

gabe's note was signed and creased and placed atop the middle bag. he returned to the couch, sat beside her and she coughed at the taste of bad cologne. he opened a manilla folder and removed a crusted handful of sketches resurrected from a watery grave. "sarah let me draw her," he said. "she was... divine that night." he flipped through the pages with ritualistic ease, rubbing his thumb occasionally across the girl's naked form.

"you never stop thinking about her..." jules said.

"no."

"do you ever think about me?"

"this isn't about you."

"i'm real, gabe. i'm alive."

he stood up and propped a single drawing against each black bag. "you're random," he began. "you're POINTLESS. i don't know where you came from or how you got here, but you're a parasite, jules. actually, that's the perfect word for it; i keep you around like a dog carries a flea. you might itch a little, but ultimately, who the fuck cares." he emphasized the last four words by plopping beside her on the sofa.

"i love you," she said.

"if you cry, i'm kicking you out."

*  *  *

jules is gonna watch him die!

the details of the gabe-jules dynamic were beyond trevor's imagination, but—for whatever reason—julesie had accompanied the boy into his bedroom on the night of his second suicide attempt.

trevor's plan would be a mind-blowing success if his girlfriend witnessed the boy's bloody demise. the horrifying experience would rekindle memories from her past and in the end, she would return to HIM for protection.

the little prick was right; his parents were gone. the lower level was dark and the dancing crimson patterns in the second-story window indicated the kids were nearly ready.

there was one final mystery; one last question that prodded trevor's mind since the moment he learned of the couple's reunion: when gabe discovered that jules was still alive, how did he forgive her for deceiving, robbing, and "murdering" him? how did THAT BOY gaze into THOSE EYES without strangling the girl to death?

another bolt and trevor counted the seconds from the safety of his truck; one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand—

CRACK!

he pulled on his gloves. he gripped his bags. the storm was nearing and he was ready to go.

*  *  *

"we wrote suicide notes that night. i hid them because i didn't actually think we'd go through with it. you know, if sarah didn't jump in the lake, she woulda lived. the pills she brought? WEAK. but how could she know any better? decent people don't know which pills to take to kill yourself. when they released me, i found our notes still stuck between the cushions. i don't know what i expected from her letter... part of me thought the whole thing was a joke. part of me thought it was a dream." gabe twisted the tip of his blunt into the sofa's arm. "during those hospital days—telling the cops about sarah and swearing i wasn't crazy—i nearly convinced myself that they were right; that she never existed at all. if i didn't have this note for proof..." gabe didn't finish that sentence, but pulled from the manilla folder a familiar piece of notebook paper.

jules slid from the couch to the floor.

"sarah was good with words," gabe said. "she had more talent than she ever let on. but her handwriting? GARBAGE." he chuckled as if divulging a harmless anecdote at the girl's funeral. "these were her last written words. wanna hear them?"

the violent kaleidoscope filled jules' peripherals but she couldn't look away. "no," she said. "please no."

gabe ignored her protest, unfolded the letter, and read it aloud. "i am a murderer. i am a murderer. i am a murderer."

jules loosened the tension in her shoulder blades. she didn't move or respond. she watched the wall.

"it began with jesse; angel at ten, a cherub when other kids were monsters. i was a devil at fourteen. i was a fiend... screwing the neighbor-boy to find my peace and jesse knew it all. during every high she found my eyes and asked when i was coming back. she begged me to stop. she wanted a sister. 

"it happened on MY watch while mom was away. my body was there but i was gone. jesse knew where we kept them. it wasn't a secret; she was family; she was ten. she reached the bag with a stool while i slept on the couch. we never determined how many she took, but it was enough. it was at my side that she fell asleep. i never felt her breathing fade. i never felt it stop.

"maybe she took them to understand why I took them. maybe she wanted to pay me back. 

"now, the first thought when i wake up is the last thought before i sleep: i. am. a murderer.

"every day i wrestle with the notion of ending my life; how EASY it would be to free myself of this guilt. one rope. one tailpipe. one ocean. one gun.

"most suicidal teens are different; they're tempted to kill themselves. with me, i know i need to die; i should be killed for the things i've done. but i keep feeling this nudge, this TEMPTATION TO LIVE. and everyday i pray to god that i never lose that temptation."

jules listened to the crinkling paper as gabe re-sealed her confession. "that's sad," she said but the words were lost in the hammering rain.

she considered gabe's suicide method—probably pills—and wondered if there would be enough for her. the blue-jean waist, "ballet-slipper" cheeks, a normal job and a promise of change; it was another con, another mask, another notch away from a trailer-trash girl named JAMIE who slept through her own sister's death.

gabe placed her note with his on the middle bag. he turned back, discovered the stowaway cellphone in the mesh pocket of her backpack, pulled it out, and snapped it in half.

jules (sarah? robin? delilah?) hardly noticed. 

behind her, a latch popped and a window opened. the change in pressure sent goose-pimples rippling down her bare legs as she listened to water pelt the empty desk and wooden floor.

"it's almost time," gabe told edgar. he unlatched the cage, gripped the bird with steady hands, and lifted him out.

jules didn't remember standing, but found herself leaning against the support beam in the center of the room, watching bird and boy in a veil of oscillating light, mouthing their silent goodbyes.

through the thicket of twigs and trembling branches gabe extended his arms. "go!" he said and released his bird into the storm.

someone screamed.

the logical portion of jules' brain determined it was the boy at the window who released the curdling bellow, but amid the thunder and sketches fluttering like feathers from their tacks, she was convinced it was the voice of a little girl shackled to a stone in the depths of hell, damning her sister for letting it happen again.

a single drawing on that papered beam caught her eye; four tacks—one in each corner—firmly secured the page while the rest flapped and ripped in wind from the spewing window. it was a picture of a boy and a girl. a silhouette. the girl's head found its place on boy's shoulder. they watched the sunset from the lip of the pier.

like a wizard in his tower, gabe heaved the window closed as a burst of lightning temporarily defined his savage figure.

"i'll be right back," jules said. "don't start without me."

the man in the shadows brought his hand to the desk, picked up a remote, and raised the volume until the screaming vibrations were inescapable.

"gabe!" she pleaded. "don't do it without me! do you understand?"

he didn't respond. 

jules spun away. she snatched her backpack from the ground, lurched to the bathroom, and slammed the door behind her.

*  *  *

off came the tee with shaking hands; the barrette, the cutesy earrings, the flip-flops, the blush and gloss and shadow.

she wet her hair and rolled it to a bun. a boy's black shirt—snapped of wrinkles—inside-out and pulled across her chest. makeup disguised the freckles. the zit vanished. white concealer masked her dimples and liner hexed her eyes. from the skirt she found the tell-tale earring and pressed the point through the hole in her nose.

the wig should have been last—a thorny tiara unearthed from the forgotten depths of the sack—but as jules straightened the strands to frame her cheeks, a glint of silver brought her attention back to the bag. it was sarah's broken watch with the heart-shaped face. around her wrist; hooked in back. she breathed. she avoided the girl in the mirror. she unlocked the bathroom door. she turned the knob.

*  *  *

a revolver hung from the hand of the boy seated in his chair, swiveling, patiently awaiting the arrival of that perfect moment.

sarah stepped from the bathroom and into the projector's beam. orange circles turned blue in digital splatters across her face. her knees buckled when she saw the gun, but she caught the wall and summoned her strength.

gabe's eyes locked on hers.

she stepped forward. the music swelled, climaxed and crashed. the visualizer dissolved to a solid grey square, drenching the room—and sarah—in screaming silence.

gabe's petrified skin softened for the first time since the night he died.

here was his soulmate, alive and well, sauntering toward him with the cultivation of a queen.

they kissed. he pressed his face against hers, fingers tracing the ridge of her spine as her hands spiraled his neck. he smelled her too, ignoring the burn in his eyes and the tears on his lip.

he took her in.

they pulled apart long enough for the boy to press his thumbs into the putty of her cheeks. 

he grinned.

but her hands were on his shoulders; her wrist beside his face. he glanced down and saw the watch—the heart-shaped watch with moisture still trapped from that night at the pier. 

jules realized her mistake but not before gabe began unraveling the reality of the ghost in his arms and the watch she once gave to the sea.

he grabbed the arm of the girl—the girl who tried to kill him—the girl who put emma in that box—and snapped the watch from her arm. 

silence. he turned the device in his hand, held it to the grey light...

jules spoke with frantic eyes, "don't. please don't! let me explain!" 

he dropped the watch.

jules watched it fall. when she looked up, the gun was at her chest.

the boy blinked a rosy pair of deranged eyes. he pressed them shut—"GABE!" she cried—and he squeezed the trigger.

BAM! the shot pierced her shoulder and blood splashed the visualizer wall like finger paint. she stumbled backward, rammed the back of the sofa, and fell.

gabe saw his mess—HIS MADNESS—then turned the gun on himself and fired a second shot into his chest.

*  *  *

BAM! trevor nearly mistook the gunshots for thunder, but the window blazed white and he knew the boy was dead.

jules would be standing beside the body, facing away as usual.

he grinned. he leapt. he ignored the rain and the thunder so close he could smell the static and strode with the gait of an angry minotaur through the island of woods and weeds and into the home; he snapped the bag and plundered their shit without a glance at the value. up the steps; there were three doors but he saw the seam with muted light, kneed it open, then fondled the wall and hit the switch.

pure ELATION giddied his senses at the sight of blood. 

the boy was broken, crumpled on the ground with a sticky black hole in his chest and the revolver by his hand. 

but his eyes flickered—he was ALIVE—his head twisted and his tongue groaned. gabe stretched his arm, but not to trevor. he stretched it but didn't have the strength to reach the girl, julesie, plastered in the corner of couch and floor.

trevor fell to his partner and touched the soft membrane of her throat. barely a pulse.

in a rare moment of absolute helplessness, the mystery of jules' relationship with the boy became crystal-fucking-clear. julesie—his light,HIS FIRE—came back to gabriel jones for a PACT.

trevor paced an oval around the room and discovered the seven bags and two notes. "every day i wrestle with the notion of ending my life; how EASY it would be to free myself of this guilt. one rope. one tailpipe. one ocean. one gun..."

trevor finally understood. his face twisted to a horrific expression. and he cried. jules wanted to die. and he provided the gun.

gabe moaned again, but there was no blood yet on his lips.

trevor dashed for the revolver, stood over the boy with one foot on each side of his fetal form, cocked the hammer, and held the barrel to the kid's face.

ten seconds passed with a single gloved finger itching that trigger. his other hand wiped tears from his scruff.

he couldn't. a thousand reasons BUT HE COULDN'T. 

trevor jolted the gun away from the boy and bit the tip with his own teeth. his lips curled the barrel and his thumb trembled against the metal guard.

from the corner of his eye—through the window in a split-second dazzle of white light—trevor saw on the tree branch what appeared to be a raven. another flash and the bird attacked the glass with its clicking beak and thumping wings. the clamor intensified with every bolt as the terrified bird fought to get inside.

trevor—still tasting the gun's warm metal and bitter residue—remembered the phone in his pocket. the bird stopped its batter, perched on a twig, and watched him with lifeless ebony eyes.

without breaking the connection with the creature, trevor removed the gun from his mouth, lifted his shirt, jammed the revolver in his belt... and removed his cell.

"help—" he stammered to the operator like a lost child in a supermarket. "trace this call and send someone NOW. i shot two people, a guy and a girl, and now i'm running away. you need to send an ambulance. you need to know that you will not catch me. i shot them, you understand? i pulled the fucking trigger but i'm running away and i'm never coming back."

the woman asked a question but he didn't comprehend.

"JUST HURRY," he shouted and closed the phone, then he slammed his fist into gabe's desk to jump-start his criminal mastermind.

the gun was his again.

the phone call and missing weapon would rule out a suicide pact, even if the boy lived and claimed that he tried to kill himself, there would be no question that it was attempted murder. without the gun, they wouldn't be able to pin the other deaths on jules; live or die, her slate was clean. 

the notes were next; ripped in half and pocketed. he tore the first black bag and dumped the contents on the foosball table and across the bedroom floor. then again with the second, the third, and the fourth. he tossed the remaining four bags, including his own, beside the door.

trevor marched to gabe, knelt to his ear, and hissed, "you hear me in there, cocksucker? if you don't bleed out, you tell those fucking cops you got punk'd. you tell 'em a bald white boy tried to steal your shit, shot you in the chest, and shot your girl. understand?"

the boy blinked once.

trevor fell back to jules. he kissed her forehead and listened to the rasp in her breath. "forgive me," he whispered. the purple watch—a quaint memento of a manipulative boyfriend—still garnished her wrist. he unhooked it with two fingers and shoved it in his pocket. "forgive me!" and he kissed her again. "to the stars and back, julesie."

trevor planted one last kiss. then he stood, double-checked the room, grabbed his loot, and sprinted out the door.

*  *  *

when jules was jamie, she played "house" with her little sister.

jesse was always the dad. jamie played the mother. dusty was their son. the make-believe family built mansions out of blankets and clothes-pins. they used jamie's encyclopedias to clamp the fabric ceilings to the chair foundation.

in those games, jesse was a GOOD husband. she never abandoned her family and never looked down on jamie for her vice.

despite her old age, jamie would pretend too. she would pretend she was clean. she would pretend that her life was worth living.

wailing sirens cut through the thunder and carried jamie back to the bedroom of the boy. her eyes met his and she tried to speak. her lips moved but the pressure on her chest made it impossible. 

"forgive me," she mouthed.

gabe didn't blink. 

"please... forgive me."

the boy understood, but he looked away.