cw :: suicide mention

“You’re lucky it was me who found you up there. Could’a been a cop.” Allan’s pick-up acknowledges every pebble in the road, but the roar of it isn’t enough to drown him out, even with the busted windows letting all the sound in. He rambles on from the driver’s side, waving his hand around — efforts to seem concerned met with a roll of the eyes, but no real response.

Casey’s in the passenger side staring out the window, idly picking at his nails. If he were really lucky, no one would have found him at all; if he were really, truly lucky, they’d have found him much too late and he’d be long gone. No Jennifer, no Allan and his stupid attempts at playing father-figure.

No Casey.

Just a missing kid splattered at the bottom of the water tower, a misstep while playing around in a place he shouldn’t have, the only signature left behind a sloppy ‘ f*** off ’ carved into the metal with a pocket knife. An oddly fitting farewell in Pahrump, though Casey can’t determine whether that thought’s soothing or terrifying.

“The hell were you doing up there anyway?” Allan asks.

Casey still doesn’t look at him, just keeps watching the window, the tower escaping further and further from view. “I was gonna jump,” he finally answers, more for shock value than anything. He doesn’t think Allan will believe him, and even if he does, he won’t care.

Allan scoffs a predicted laugh. “You know, your mom works pretty f***in’ hard to keep a roof over your head, n’ you say thanks by trying to jump off the God damn water tower?”

“You asked.”

Allan parks his truck on the side of the road — nowhere near home, and he doesn’t turn off the ignition, or make a move to get out. Instead, he starts lighting a cigarette. “Believe it or not, I used to be like you, Casey.”

Casey raises an eyebrow. “Like me?”

“Yeah, a troublemaker. Sneakin’ out, drinking, back-talking. You know what my dad did?” Allan takes a long drag off his cigarette. “Take a guess.”

Casey’s already reaching for the door handle, a sour taste in his mouth; an inexplicable sickness in his stomach; a blaring voice in his head telling him to get out of there. He’s no longer naive enough to assume Allan’s trying for motivation or comfort; it’s a threat.

“Nothing?”

Nothing.

Allan takes another drag. “My dad used t’beat the living hell outta me. Straightened me right up.”

“Okay?”

“You need someone to straighten you up.”

Casey grits his teeth together, fingertips still feeling over the handle. The ignition’s still on; Allan could take off the second he opens the door, and Casey doesn’t put it past him, but he’d take a busted leg over an altercation. “You mean you?”

“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” Allan turns off the ignition.

That’s his moment.

It’s up to him, right?

Without a word, Casey shoves the door open and takes off running in the opposite direction.