NOTE: This chapter is available in audiobook format on the TLHOC Podcast.
Access previous chapters of the book on the Table of Contents page.
June 15, 8:16 pm
Richard’s rage followed him into his own memory, where he materialized like steam on cold glass—and his body came together already shouting. He heard his own voice, but he wasn’t the one forming the words, as if his shouts were being tuned in on an old radio from a station on another continent.
“You can tell me about how you’re not gay the next time you’re sucking my cock,” Richard was yelling. He could not only hear it, but feel the bitter words in his own mouth. And yes, it was his mouth now. “Or better yet, tell it to whatever professor you start fucking within the first two weeks at Dartmouth. You can tell him all about how you want to date girls, while he’s driving his cock into your ass!”
There was a body attached to that voice. He looked down at his pointing finger. His hands looked far less lined, and on his wrist was a watch that he had not worn for more than a dozen years. That wrist was trembling. It was his wrist, and it was attached to someone shameful that he used to be.
Richard and Justin were standing in the room where the two of them last saw each other alive. Only vaguely was Richard aware that this was the past, and that much had transpired since this horrible day. He fought to remember it all, but in the rage that once again filled him, and with the hatred he felt toward the boy who had wronged him, all of that was vague and unreal.
Forcing himself to look around the room, he saw it too was different from what it would be on the day that he died. Different—and yet the same too. All the furniture was what his mom had when this was her house, and the walls were the white he remembered from when he was a child. The gore was gone from the carpet and the wall, and where that stain had spread was now hanging a picture of himself and his brother, on a fishing trip with their uncle when they were both teenagers.
This is the room the way this room looked when Justin and I were seeing each other, he realized. It was the year after I moved into the house. There were still some boxes of books against the far wall where they had sat for that whole first year.
It was all like he remembered it… But no, not quite. The colors were wrong. They were too bright, too clean. The furniture was untouched. The windows didn’t show anything outside; just a blank whiteness, like the glow from a neon sign, or like the room was suspended in sunlit fog. The room was bathed in a light that came from nowhere, making everything soft, hazy, indistinct. This was an idealized, CGI version of this room—pieced together from his own faulty memories, and sanitized to hide, or perhaps highlight, his guilt and regret.
Even as Richard took in the details of the room, he could hear his voice continuing to rage at the boy who stood before him.
“You’re just another self-hating Mormon fag,” he screamed. “I should have realized from the beginning that you’re nothing but a whore!”
God, the sound of his voice! He hated it so much. Was he ever truly this bitter, this vindictive? And there was Justin, standing across the room, looking so hurt and vulnerable. Why couldn’t he see at the time how deeply his words were wounding the boy? How irretrievably they would cut his soul and mar him through the rest of his doomed life—and beyond.
He tried to stop the Richard from seventeen years ago, tried to silence his shrill and desperate voice, tried to make him shut up before he did even more damage. But the poison was already out, and Justin was speaking, his voice high and tremulous, like a little boy.
“I’m not self-hating, and I’m not repressed!” Justin advanced on Richard, his finger poking him in the chest. “In fact, the only person I hate right now is you! I’m not your fucking property. I’m leaving this shit hole, and I’m leaving you, and I’m going to New Hampshire! So you can just fuck off, big fucking deal fucking Professor Pratt!”
It’s all the same, he moaned, wanting to claw his way out of this hated body. It’s my punishment. Perhaps this is hell. I’m going to be forced to relive this, the worst moment of my life, over and over again, forever. He wanted to sink to the floor, but his knees refused to buckle. Please, God, he begged. I would rather feel that gunshot in my head again than this. Anything other than having to witness what I did to this boy… I can’t live through this day again…
Staring hard at Justin, he saw that there were emotions at war on the boy’s face as well, as if he too had deep wounds and regrets about this moment that he could not bear.
This is not just my hell, Richard realized with a start. These are Justin’s memories too, and he must dread what is happening to us right now, even more than I do…
That realization was enough to shatter the illusion and pull him back into the present moment. With a rush, he remembered everything that had led him back to this room, this memory. All the regret and guilt, all the loss. His love for Keith. His death. The Hereafter, Billy, Howard, Tuilla, and everything leading to this moment.
And what was this moment? What was really happening right now?
Justin is possessing Pil. This moment is him strangling Keith. This is me, trying to stop it. I dove into Pil and I ended up… Here…
The realization was like an icy blast of water to his face.
Why here? Why this?
Perhaps this was his second chance. Perhaps if he could heal the wounds he inflicted that day, maybe that would be the thing that could save not only Keith, but Justin, too. Was someone giving them a second chance? Was their redemption to be found in this, the last painful moment they had spent together as living men who once loved each other?
Richard tried to stay sane, as the strain of holding both realities in his mind at once bore down upon him. This was both that fateful day seventeen years ago, and it was also the present moment. Justin was both the confused and wounded boy he had been on that day, as well as the raging and homicidal ghost that he had become. And Richard was both the insecure young professor, and the guilt-ridden older man, full of loss and regret.
I have to break out of this script. I have to stop this play, Richard thought.
Seventeen years ago he had turned away from Justin in this moment. Every fiber of Richard’s will was yearning to turn away now, to stick to the script, to let the anguish of this moment end with the sound of a slamming door. He felt his body turning—and with a supreme act of will he stopped it. His hand shot out and grabbed Justin’s wrist!
The spell broke so suddenly that it sounded like crashing glass in Richard’s ears, and the look on Justin’s face told him it had been just as much of a shock for the boy. He too had wanted this moment to end, had wanted to storm away from Richard and slam that door. But now he was trapped by Richard’s grip on his wrist, and the look on his face was somewhere between terror and ecstasy.
And yet Justin continued, reciting his lines the way he had, struggling to wrench free his hand and back away. His voice was unsteady now, as if his memory was failing, and he was searching for every word.
“Richard… my mind… my mind is made up. But what I… what I really need is… for you to tell me it is okay… I need… I need to go. I… love you. I really do. And… and I really need you not to hate me. You’ll never know how important… this summer was to me. How important…”
A shiver ran through the boy. His head jerked to the right, oddly mechanical, as if slapped, and then his head tipped back. Reeling, he repeated his last words, as if they were a skip in a broken record.
“You’ll never know… I really need you to… I… You’ll never know… How important…”
Justin’s voice trailed off, as the tremor grew into a spasm so violent that Richard had to squeeze harder to keep his grip on the boy’s wrist. And then Justin roared as if in agony and threw both of them back against the wall, which absorbed the shock with barely a sound. The picture of Richard and his brother fell to the floor. The sound of the glass shattering, as much as the impact, finally tore Richard’s hand free.
“Richard…” Justin said, as he staggered away. His hands grasped to his temples as if he was trying to press the words out of his skull before it fractured. “The only person… The only person I hate… Richard, the only person I hate…”
Richard stared in wonder. Justin was now simultaneously the hurt, lost, broken-hearted eighteen-year-old boy that he remembered, and something malignant. Something malformed by years and years of hatred and resentment. He was the innocent boy Richard had wronged, and also the vicious, angry monster that Richard had made him. He was also the fireball of rage that was, at this moment, controlling Pil, and choking the life out of the man Richard loved.
I’m losing him, Richard knew. I’m losing them both. This is the moment when it happened. Justin had been so desperate in this moment to find some love and affection, and I failed him. He remembered what he had said back then, and every muscle in his spasming body was aching to say them again.
Justin, you’ve made your decision. Go ahead. Ruin your life. I don’t care. I never did. I never loved you. I never cared for you. You were just a hot piece of teenage ass, and I’m glad to be rid of you. Now get the fuck out of my house.
Oh god, yes, those were the words he had said. No wonder they had burned the boy to the ground.
Suddenly, there was a third voice in his head, as if she had been watching all along, waiting for this moment to remind him of what she had taught him.
Compassion, Tuilla was saying. You can only possess with compassion and empathy. And kindness…
What did that mean? Was he to just let Justin walk away with his blessing? Should he tell him he would always love him, even if they weren’t together? It seemed like an impossible demand; a weight that not even God himself could lift.
Richard walked slowly to the trembling boy, who was now looking up into Richard’s face with eyes of fire and lips curled back in an almost feral snarl.
“Justin, I’m sorry,” Richard stammered, touching the boy’s cheek. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you. You didn’t deserve… what I did…”
Richard wasn’t sure what he expected to happen, but as hard as those words were to say, he could see that the boy before him was still at war with himself. Perhaps it was too much to hope for that Justin would fall into his arms and all would be forgiven. But to his agony, Justin’s face was growing ever more torn with anguish and despair. Richard watched the warring emotions as they painted themselves on Justin’s face.
“Justin, we need to let go of the men we were,” Richard said, his voice as soft and as gentle as he could pitch it. “I need you to be back here with me. Right here. Now. Today. It’s been seventeen years. Please. You can’t hear me say I’m sorry if you’re still stuck in our past.”
The boy dropped his eyes and stared at the floor for several seconds, vibrating at a pitch that made him look as if his arms and legs were about to come apart at the joints.
But then, the last thing Richard expected happened. Justin threw himself into his arms and squeezed him so tightly that it took his breath away. He cradled Justin’s cheek against his own, and could feel the ragged breath as it heaved in and out, the boy’s chest expanding and contracting under his tight grip. The emotional pitch and roll of the boy in his arms threatened to shake them both to the floor, and even as his heart was full to breaking, Richard could hear his doubts assailing him.
Who is this? Who am I holding?
Although he wanted to hold Justin forever, slowly, he forced himself to unwrap his arms from the boy’s torso. He grabbed Justin by the shoulders and slowly pushed him away so that he could look into the boy’s face. For a moment, he saw the boy he had loved and lost, his face almost radiant in its love and gratitude.
But that look was only a mask, and it was already melting from his face. The love and sadness, the need and hope, all dissolved, and Richard thought he could hear the high-pitched and screeching laugh of the Wanderer.
Richard wanted to scream, No, don’t go! Justin! Don’t go!!!!
But in an instant, the fiery eyes and hatred were all that remained.
Justin’s shoulders were suddenly so hot that they burned Richard’s hands, and he jerked away from the pain, letting the boy go. When Justin spoke, his voice was so malevolent that Richard hardly recognized it.
“Did you notice?” Justin asked, his features hardening more every second. “We’re standing where you died. This is where I shot you in the head, and blew your fucking brains all over the wall behind you, Richard. Did you notice? Did you notice?”
The boy was right. Richard looked down and saw the red blood as it had been the day he died, and as it had still appeared to him when he returned, three days later. Worse, the blood was not only coating their feet, but was now spreading, as if it was all fresh. He knew that if he looked behind him, he would see the red cottonwood tree blossoming onto the wall in all its fury—blossoming with new branches that spread up the wall, and across the ceiling.
The entire room began to turn red in the corners of his vision.
And then Justin spit in Richard’s face. And it, too, was blood.
The boy he once loved disappeared, and the angel of God rose up before him, like a twisted demon. The gentle boy dissolved, and as the trickle of spit burned down his face, so did any hope that Richard had of redemption. Either for him, or for the boy he had wronged.
I’ve failed!
All the guilt and regret that he had ever felt crashed back in upon him, magnified and propelled by Justin’s fury. Nothing he could do would change the past, and he had been a fool to believe that it could. The weight of his grief felt as if it would crush him into a bloody pulp, there on the stained carpet on which they both stood.
This is a monster I made, Richard thought. This is a monster I made out of someone who was good and loving, and wanted nothing more than to live his life. I took all of that away from him. I took all that away from us both.
Like a shimmering funhouse mirror, the room itself twisted around them. The walls shifted and returned to their actual color. The furniture melted away, replaced by all the pieces he had bought with Keith. And worst of all, the gore at their feet sprayed across the room in violent arcs and crescendos, leaving streaks and splatters across everything, from floor to ceiling. Including the two men still staring at each other, just inches apart. Rivulets of red ran down the walls and over both of their faces.
Reduced to their most basic components, all that was left of the two men was Justin’s rage and Richard’s regret. And in despair, Richard realized that Justin’s rage was by far the stronger of the two. There was no way he could save this boy now—at least, not with any of Tuilla’s tools. Compassion alone could never heal a soul so thoroughly broken, and if he tried, Justin would win. He’d expel Richard out of Pil, and he’d be lying there on the ground, unable to do anything, as the big man snapped Keith like a twig in his hands. He knew it was what Justin wanted, perhaps more than anything else in his twisted life.
So much for the path of blue and silver, he thought, with deep pain. All that I have now is the red path. The path of George and his angels. And if that is what it takes to save Keith, then so be it…
He was surprised how easy it was to substitute rage for his guilt and regret. Without a single moment of hesitation, he allowed his hatred to flow over him. For an instant he thought he could hear Tuilla screaming “No!” in his mind, but he silenced her voice effortlessly, and then harnessed that rage and lunged at Justin.
Rage meets rage, Richard thought. Now, we’re equally matched.
The room dripped with blood, and it ran down the walls, poured from the light fixtures, and hovered in the very air in a red mist. Like two ancient wrestlers, Justin and Richard battled, smashing through the furniture and shattering the walls themselves as they roared and raged and clawed at each other. Vaguely, Richard knew that their battle could well destroy Pil. Even though this room was conjured out of their collective memories, it was built of the stuff of Pil’s mind. The damage they were doing here would have everlasting consequences for him, and if it continued, it could destroy him utterly. The room itself was expanding and contracting convulsively as they fought.
Justin was laughing now as he grappled with Richard. He was enjoying seeing things dissolve. As they wrestled together on the writhing, bloody floor, he pulled his mouth close to Richard’s ear and hissed.
“I have no problem watching Pil die,” the boy rasped. “And who knows, maybe the old myths are true. Maybe when Pil goes, he’ll pull us both into the Void with him…”
Richard tried to free himself from Justin, who was now ripping at him with what felt like iron claws.
“How would that be?” the boy snarled. “What do you say, Richard? Let’s go into hell together. Maybe you and I can tear at each other for all eternity. But your hell will be worse. Because I will lose nothing. You’ll never know what happened to Keith. What do you say, Richard? Shall we do it?”
With a roar, Richard picked up the boy, holding him over his head like a squirming animal. He was fully in touch with his rage now, and not even trying to temper it. There was nothing of Tuilla’s teaching left in him. He set it all aside as he slipped the mantle of hatred over his soul like a comfortable glove.
Richard lifted Justin higher, shocked at his own strength in this imaginary realm. He held the boy aloft, but Justin’s hands were free, and gripped the sides of Richard’s skull. With amazing strength, the boy pulled his face down until he was inches from his nemesis. He laughed again and spat his words.
“You’re too late, Richard. What is happening is just the beginning. Who do you think you are, to defy God?”
Richard turned his face away from Justin and toward the window. It was the one that had been shattered by Justin’s gunshot and was covered with plywood in the real world. But here it was clear, bright, and featureless, shining with a harsh light, beckoning Richard forward. The blood was flowing toward it from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, like a massive whirlpool. He heaved Justin higher, preparing to throw him. Justin screamed, but now there was genuine panic in his voice. The balance had shifted, and the thing felt it.
“Go ahead! I’ll kill Keith the way you killed me! You won’t see me coming the next time! I’ll make sure of it!” He broke into maniacal laughter.
Richard threw the boy through the window. But it wasn’t just the glass that shattered. The entire room exploded around him, and he felt himself falling through endless darkness.
The Last Handful of Clover is a supernatural thriller by Wess Mongo Jolley. Thanks for reading! If you are enjoying this story, please consider supporting the author on Patreon.
For more information (including maps of the story’s world and a contact form) visit the author’s website.
To read previous chapters of this book, go to the Table of Contents page.
If you’re interested in listening to the book, rather than reading it, the audiobook is available at the Patreon link above, and also as a podcast on iTunes, Stitcher, Anchor, and all other podcast platforms. Visit the podcast page for more details.
ADDITIONAL LINKS:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/WessMongoJolley
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WessMongoJolley
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/mongobearwolf
Copyright 2021, Wess Mongo Jolley. All rights reserved.
