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Four-Letter Words(continued) Even though you might not believe in superstitious things like astrology, too many cultures have incorporated stars into their belief systems for there not to be at least some measure of truth to the fact that they have power over our lives. Stars may be little more than hydrogen furnaces, but they are what has created the rest of the elements, gave life to the infinite nothingness. Turn it into a scientific equation, and you get: star + time = life Three four-letter words that came together so that I could write this and you could read it, and we'd both feel better for it. I'd carried the cure in my pocket all along. I didn't give it to Emma like I'd planned because, at first, I was angry with her for what I didn't understand. But then I realized she couldn't help what was happening to her any more than I could help being a foster kid. I swapped the needle and syringe for the star-straw and concealed it the best I could with the sock. Then I threw the dirty tools out the window. Emma probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd set fire to the bed. When RJ finally came back, Emma rushed to meet him at the door. He greeted her with a stiff arm that stopped her short. "Dammit, bitch! Chill the fuck out." He stalked over to the bed, took the two-liter bottle of orange soda from under my dangling feet and drank deep. Emma looked on as if she'd been crawling through the desert for the last three days without a drop of water. Little did I know then, but that's probably exactly how she felt. RJ let out a huge belch. "This fuckin' town went dry," he said, digging in his pocket. But the nigger I scored from says this is top-of-the-line shit. You're gonna have to work extra hard tonight." Emma rubbed her palms on her thighs. "Just give it to me, RJ." RJ dropped a tiny packet of paper into Emma's trembling hand. She set the packet on the nightstand and then unfolded the sock. Can't say that I didn't expect the shock on her face, or the moan of despair, but I was right. Nothing can escape the power of a star. When RJ saw what I'd done he shook his be-ringed fist in my face. "You little bastard. Fuck with my money and I'll make you work. Tell me where it is! " I cringed, scooting to the other side of the bed. Though fully aware of what he meant, I still wouldn't tell him what I'd done. I couldn't do that to Emma. She crawled toward me, combed her fingers through my hair. "Where'd you put it, honey? You can tell me." I shook my head. My eyes began to burn. She'd never called me "honey" before. "Bullshit!" RJ boomed. He cocked back his fist. "You better tell me, you little piece of shit!" Emma slid between us. "Just give him a minute. He'll tell us." She turned and kissed me on the forehead. "You'll tell us, honey, won't you?" She smelled awful. As if she were rotting inside. Something you wouldn't have noticed right off, but it was there, subcutaneous and damp. I closed my eyes against the coming tears. RJ rifled the store bag, snatched out one of the pies. "Fifteen minutes, Emma. Nodding or not, we've got money to make if we're ever getting out of this town." He tore open the wrapper and bit off the top as if his teeth were the twirling blades of a combine. "And if you're not up to it, it'll be this little asshole's turn." With that, he stalked out of the room and slammed the door. "Don't do it!" I yelled as the tears burst from my eyes. "Don't do it, Emma, please!" "I have to," she whispered and buried her face in her hands. Her back shuddered. She looked so small. For the first time, I realized she really wasn't much older than I was. She had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. She was hurting, bad, and without someone else to run to she thought she had no way to escape. I did the ten-year-old pleading thing, complete with streaming tears and stamping feet. I begged her to leave with me, to run away like we did from the farm. She stared at the floor for a long time. Finally, she raised her eyes and said, "Okay. I'll go. Just wait for me outside. I want to change." I waited in the hallway, but I didn't realize how long she was taking until RJ appeared, leading a man with thick glasses perched on a fat, crooked nose. The leer on the John's livery lips faltered when he realized that I stood in front of the door where RJ stopped. I blocked his way. "We're leaving." RJ laughed. "What the hell crawled up your ass?" Then he snatched me by the arm and cuffed me on the side of the head. His ring tore a gash in my cheek. A trickle of blood oozed down my chin. "I don't need this," muttered the John as he turned to leave. "Hold up," said RJ. "Never mind this little shit." RJ grabbed my shoulder, whirled me around, and slammed my head against the door. To keep from falling, I grabbed the knob. The door swung open. Emma was sprawled across the bed's dingy coverlet, one Ked-adorned foot dangling over the edge. Her beautiful face, the face of a snared angel, tilted to the side as if she'd been searching for meaning in the ceiling's far corner, but her eyes were now closed. She seemed at peace, as if nestled in a dream-filled sleep. But somehow I knew she wasn't sleeping. One might say that fifteen is too young to die. I don't know. We all have to die someday. Who's to say it's better to die old? Sometimes it's best that a young person die, for the young person, that is. It all depends. I staggered toward the bed, my hand out to touch her, to say good-bye. Her half-curled fingers gripped the upper portion of the star-straw. The part that you'd put in the drink lay next to the unfolded piece of paper. I shed more tears, tears of both sadness and joy. I leaned over. I kissed her on the cheek. One of the last things she told me was that she had to do it. Not any longer. The star had taken her far away from the hell RJ had trapped her in. I don't know about you, Dr. Carter, but I don't think life is a condition, no matter how many people treat it that way. The next thing I remember is RJ charging into the roan and hitting me on the side of the head. I woke in the woods, my head swollen like a cow's udder, tape over my mouth, wrists, and ankles. He'd dumped us in the trees behind a rest stop ten miles east of St. Louis, and from there, Dr. Carter, you pretty much know the story about the proverbial lost child in the mire of social services. There were some questions about Emma. RJ was long gone, and whatever happened to Emma's body, it didn't matter to me. The body is just a vessel. Sometimes it's a hindrance, a prison that locks the soul in with the turmoil. But Emma lives on. In that star that winked at me the night she died. And even though my confinement will not allow me to see the stars ever again, she lives on in my heart. You handed me this tablet to help me find the root of why I killed that man. I have no pathological excuse. The stars did not influence me to do it, there were no voices compelling me to kill. Maybe it was that dirt-bag's care-for- nothing swagger, the way he grabbed that waitress's ass and pulled her into his lap then called her a whore for not appreciating his attentions. Maybe it was the oily smell of potential menace wafting off him that dug up the corpse of a buried memory. To tell you the truth, besides maybe his mother, I don't think one person misses that junkie. That's what he was. Just like RJ. Chaos junkies. Thriving on a life awash with other people's pain and disorder. Like most of the men with whom I now must live for the rest of my life. They don't realize what's happening, though, even if they say they do. They think life is about no more than making money and getting laid. People construct their lives around experiences; major events recorded as mental movies. And who better to reveal a few dark secrets than a convicted murderer? Then again, whether they're dark or not, or what life really means,
depends on what side you see them from. Or perhaps how you connect those
mysterious twinkling dots.
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