I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 18. Brights' Garage

There is a sick triangle happening between the three of us, and I'm clearly out of the picture. Hunter hasn't had a father for two years now. I do, but my father doesn't want me; he never did, and never will. He wants a son, and Hunter would be perfect for him to relay his women-hating and siren-killing knowledge to, just like he always wanted. Conflict or not, it's clear they've formed some sort of a parent-child attachment to each other. For Hunter, some father is better than no father at all. For my father, a son is better than a daughter. Me? I just need to get out of their way and let them be. And the only way out for me is death, as it always has been. A siren's suicide. Which makes me think of Canosa and where she fits in this picture. She stirs the pot, pulls on our strings, and makes us clamor. I know. If Hunter, Papa, and I are one of those steel triangle percussion instruments, then Canosa is the metal beater. With me gone, there'd be nothing left for her to ring.

I've come full circle. That's it then, my fate is sealed. With my decision made, I feel relief spread through my body, forgetting that I'm hot and aching and can barely breathe.

Mom? I wait, as if she'll speak to me. I hear nothing. Mom, wherever you are, can you hear me? Is this how you felt? That you were being left out of the picture? Is that why you jumped? I get it now and I'm coming. Coming soon to join you, I promise. I swallow. I'm sorry I couldn't kill Papa to avenge you. Canosa asked me to, in return for telling me what happened to you and where you are. You wouldn't want me do it though, would you? Because you still love him, no matter what, right? I know I do. I hate it, but I can't help it. I pause, almost expecting her voice to answer me, to soothe me, to tell me what to do. Mom, can tell me where you are, where I can find you? Can you? Please? I wait for something, for some sign, some sound or feeling or even a flicker of premonition. Anything. But there is nothing, only stuffy silence. I close my eyes, waiting for the end to come.

The car speeds in a straight line, then slows down. I recognize the turns and the sound of asphalt under the tires. Away from the trunk's back wall, I hear no talking. But it seems like there isn't any, only a hushed stillness reeking of depression. The increased humidity makes me perspire and fade into dizziness once more. My jeans stick to me in a disgustingly warm layer of damp cotton, and Hunter's rain jacket feels slick and foreign against my skin. Drowning in the heated air, I'm close to fainting, rasping for oxygen, my gills ablaze.

The car stops. Papa pulls on the handbrake and leaves the engine idling. I know where we are. We're in his typical parking spot, a couple yards east from a dark blue sign that reads 411 Raye Street, our house. Despite the soundproof layering of the trunk, I hear the garage door creak open.

Papa releases the handbrake and the car slowly moves forward. After the garage door closes, the handbrake is up again, and the engine dies, everything is still. Then, the trunk lid pops open letting in a sliver of cold air. I try to gulp it in a series of frantic breaths, but the tape covering my mouth doesn't let me. I wait, the skin on my face damp with cold sweat. My hands and feet are numb from being tied with a metal rope for so long.

The driver-side door opens, followed by the passenger door. Suddenly, Hunter's soul melody is so close, I can almost taste it. His hand presses into the back of his seat, toward me. I attempt to move my hand, to press back or wave, as if saying, I'm here. I'll get out of your way. I'll get out of everybody's way, I promise.

The soft resin of Papa's Gucci loafers gently hugs the concrete. His car keys jingle, the light switches on, and the trunk lid flies open. The bright, fluorescent light hits my eyes; I flinch and utter an involuntary moan.

"Too bright for you, sweetie? I'm sorry, there is no dimmer here. My bad. I'll have to install one."

I want to say, Like you care, but I can't. Telling him wouldn't matter, anyway. Nothing matters anymore.