𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖘 || 𝘥. 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝟎𝟎𝟏 ⌖ girls and guns

♫ || please, please, please, let me get what i want ► the smiths

palo alto, california
october 30, 2005 // late evening

𝐒𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑 than he'd been in a long, long time. And why shouldn't he be? He was seven months away from graduating from one of the most prestigious universities in the country; three days away from a chance at the law school of his dreams; and four weeks away from calling up Kay's and asking them about their best engagement ring. Not to purchase, because he couldn't afford it yet, but to put it on layaway until he could buy it. With real money. Real, legal tender. Because things were perfect.

Everything was perfect. Jess was perfect, and he'd known it for more than a year now. How lucky he'd been to meet a girl like her: intelligent, well-humored, compassionate, and drop-dead gorgeous. And most importantly... unswervingly accepting of who he was. Not even a hint of disappointment when he said he wouldn't be dressing up for Halloween. Only a smile of sympathy, a scarlet kiss on the cheek, and a promise to help him raid the 7-11 down the block for their own pool of candy. That was Jess. She didn't even know why he resented the holiday, but she respected what he wanted and never loved him any less. Always.

It was something his blood family had never been able to do. They'd always known, deep down, that he was different. But Dean and Dad couldn't manage to swallow that bitter pill, to acknowledge that Sam didn't want the life they were so dead-set on living. He wanted this life: gym in the mornings, class during the day, study groups in the afternoons, parties and dates and football games in the evening, and kissing his girlfriend goodnight. Over and over and over again until he forgot where he came from and only knew where he was going.

In his best dreams, he and Jess got married. Small and quiet and private, because that's what he wanted. And then they'd buy a house off the coast in San Diego, where she'd been raised. They'd have two kids — a boy and a girl, because that's what she wanted — and Sam would teach them how to make muffins instead of molotovs. He'd take his boy fishing. They'd play catch and they'd wade in the ocean water, or whatever Normal Dads did with their Normal Sons. And he'd take his girl to all the daddy-daughter balls that she wanted. He'd show up to her games and recitals and talent shows. He'd give her first boyfriend a stern talking to, instead of trying to scare him off with a shotgun. Normal Dad, Normal Daughter. And eventually he'd only see salt as seasoning, and silver as the best kind of cutlery. In his best dreams, his family was built to love and built to last.

And in his worst nightmares... none of that happened. Jessica was pinned to the ceiling of their pitch apartment bedroom, her skin cadaverous in the moonlight dripping through the wind-blown curtains. Limbs mangled and askew, eyes glossy with tears and her mouth contorted into an unending shriek. Her abdomen would slice itself open and pour crimson like wine. And then she'd ignite. Wreathed in flame, she'd stare at him with those vacant blue eyes, like she was seeing who he really was for the first time, and she was dying for it.

Most times he'd jolt awake, drenched in sweat as he reached out and held her tight until she managed to warm him up. But sometimes the nightmare would continue. She'd burn, and he'd scramble to his feet as smoke and flesh peeled from her form. He'd run, and there would be a woman in the doorway. Silhouetted, catching moonlight on her wavy hair and firelight in her dark eyes. Her face was carved from shadow, undefined and nebulous. And yet as he ran to her, he didn't feel fear.

He felt guilt. Guilt like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole and pervading his lungs. Guilt like nothing he'd ever felt before; frigid and unforgiving and ruthless as a knife twisting in his heart.