The Genetic Code

Epilogue

Sterling

There are certain moments in your life that make you feel like you're dying.

Dealing with the crippling guilt of knowing you were the cause of a boy's death.

Finding out your mother abandoned you, leaving you to face the wrath of your abusive alcoholic father alone.

Taking the only good thing in your life, the only other person to ever give a damn about you since the woman who walked out the door when you were twelve, and shattering her to pieces.

But unfortunately, you still wake up the next day and realize you're not dead yet.

So what can you do? Lock those memories away in the deepest crevices of your mind. Take that raw pain and lay it down as bricks in the heightening wall you've progressively built around your heart. Erase any traces of ever feeling anything.

Chips of paint and flakes of concrete litter the bed of snow around my feet. My knuckles turn pale as my grip on the handle of the scraper tightens, grating harshly against the concrete. Of course it'd be much simpler to just paint another layer over with a few squeezes of a spraycan, but I can't deal with knowing that it still exists. I need it gone.

White — the snow; sparkling, pure, falling soundlessly from the sky, enveloping me in a chilling blanket.

Red — my anger; my passion; my blood, burning hot as it trickles down my wrist and stains the white below.

Grey — my life without her in it.

Neon flashing lights. Sirens. I hear them before I see them, illuminating the dark night sky in blue and red.

If I make a run for it now they won't catch me.

My feet stay put.

I hear the sirens getting closer.

I begin to whistle a familiar tune, beckoning them.

Tires screeching, slamming doors, radio static and shouting voices.

"Freeze!"

My back remains turned against them, the scraper in my hands continuing to abrade the solid concrete surface before me.

"You are trespassing and vandalizing private property which is now in possession of the Crawford Foundation. Freeze where you are right now!"

The scraper drops to the ground, hitting the snow with a quiet thud. My hands slowly raise up, dark red dripping down my elbows from the abrasions on my palms. I continue to whistle, as I hear the heavy drumming of boots approaching behind me.

"Put your hands behind your head."

My hands ease to the back of my skull, with four of my fingers folded down, leaving the one in the middle erect.

Next thing I know my face is slammed into the wall, cold metal slapped on my wrists. The right side of my lip curls up into a devious gleam. The profanities spat by the officers at my antic are drowned out by my barks of maniacal laughter as they drag me roughly out of the pool lot.

As I'm shoved into the police vehicle, I cast a final longing look at my masterpiece on the pool floor: a portrait of her in chalk, now partially concealed by fallen snowflakes and marred by trodden footprints. I was supposed to show it to her. Now she'll never get the chance to see it before it gets erased by the elements. Probably for the better. On the wall adjacent, I face my confession, unsuccessfully scratched away from the concrete surface: three battered words...

I love you.