The girls have disappeared into the house, and you didn’t hit any of them. Three shots, and you seriously didn’t hit them. You switch the gun from one hand to another and shake out your cramped fingers. Your body was too stiff. You wished you had the agility of a cat, but you were just a clumsy piece of wood without elegance.
You walk over to your father, who is lying motionless on the ground. You can’t tell if he’s breathing. The blood gleams dully where the pipe hit him on the head. You kick the pipe away and crouch down. You want to ask your father if he can hear you, where it hurts, and what you should do. The three questions produce one simple statement. It startles you just as much as the truth that you’ve heard from Taja’s mouth.
“You shot my best friend!”
Your voice sounds shrill. It’s the adrenaline, the echo of the gunshots, and of course the sobering feeling of failure. It’s out now. You’re wired up and you switch the gun back to your firing hand. Your father is lying in front of you and he might be dead and he might be alive, but whichever he is, your thoughts left your mouth unfiltered, and now you’re seriously waiting for the reality around you to blow apart with a bang. Nothing happens, of course, so you go on, “You lied to me because you wanted to train me. I know that. Tanner told me, he told me everything.”
It’s a new feeling, you squat down beside your father, you say what you’re thinking and nothing happens. Fuck the ice beneath you, let it break, fuck your father, let him be dead. Dead, you think, and it’s a sense of relief the like of which you’ve never felt before. Like you feel after an orgasm, like a swig of water after being thirsty for a week. Your father has failed, he let one of the girls knock him down. And he lied to you. That carries some weight. You wanted to keep it to yourself and now it’s out. You pussy.
“He was my best friend.”
You look at the gun in your hand and move the safety catch up and down, up and down. How easy it would be to shoot your father right now. That really would be the end. No more you, no more him.
When he’s dead, I’ll live.
Then you would throw the gun into the fjord, put your father over your shoulder, and go back to the cemetery. Then you’d lay him in the open grave and add Tanner and Leo to it. It would give you a great sense of relief to fill the grave yourself, put the spades back in the shed, and then go to the car. Maybe you’d drive back to Berlin, maybe you’d disappear into the Norwegian wilderness and become a legend.
Anything is possible.
You take your eyes away from the gun and look at your father. His eyes are open, his voice is hoarse.
“What … what happened?”
“You shot Mirko.”
“Shit, Darian, what just happened?”
“Stink knocked you down.”
He doesn’t move, only his eyes, his mouth.
“What?”
“She clobbered you. With that pipe there. You didn’t see it coming.”
He blinks, licks his lips, rolls his eyes, tries to look round, but he can’t move his head, his right hand is trembling, he tries to clench his fist, gives up.
“And you shot Mirko. Tanner told me. You shot my best friend.”
Your father coughs, takes a deep breath, he looks pained, he doesn’t want to hear that, but he has no choice, he’s helpless.
“Why did you lie to me? Why did you say it was the girls?”
“It made sense.”
“It made sense? What does that mean?”
“You’ve got to learn to direct your anger. I gave you a direction to go in. And Mirko was a coward. He insulted me. Apparently Tanner didn’t tell you that. Your friend was giving us all the runaround. You’d have done the same thing if—”
“You can’t just shoot my best friend!” you interrupt the man nobody interrupts, and add softly, “It’s not cool.”
“Of course it’s cool. I’m your father. I can do anything. Have you forgotten who I am? Are you starting to cry? Where’s your cock? Are you a eunuch? You killed a boy and you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Think about that. Think about it, damn it, and open your eyes and look at me. What’s up? Is your hand twitching? Are you going to take your revenge on me and put a bullet in my head?”
You just look at him, your hand won’t stop twitching, you pull the safety catch up and down, up and down. And think about Leo. And think about Tanner. How the gun went off in your hand because the boy went nuts. Three shots and two corpses.
Because I fucked up.
“Help me up, I can’t feel my legs.”
“I want an apology.”
“What?”
“I want you to apologize to me.”
“Darian, stop all this nonsense, my head’s about to explode and I can’t move my fucking arms and legs. Help me up!”
“Apologize.”
Your father stares at you, his right hand claws in the earth, he isn’t capable of doing anything else. His voice is a hiss.
“You little shit, just so you know, I have no reason to apologize, I …”
He breaks off, his eyes bulge, he turns pale, then he turns his head to the side and throws up. It’s pitiful. Nothing about your father is working anymore. Stink really whacked him, he can’t even wipe his own puke off his chin. His head whips around, spit goes flying through the air.
“Help me up, Darian! I’m not going to say it again, help me up, you muscle-bound jerk. HELP ME UP, I’M YOUR FATHER!”
You know if he could he’d grab you now. He can’t. You crouch down in front of him, unmoved, there’s no reason to move back even an inch. So weak. You grab your chest, put your hand over your heart, you really want to cry now, because you’ve just understood something, and that understanding is full of emotion and it makes you sad. You think you’ve understood your father for the first time.
“I don’t think you have a heart,” you say. “That’s why you don’t feel anything, that’s why you can be the way you are. They forgot to give you a heart.”
Your father laughs.
“Stop talking such bullshit. Everybody has a heart. Nothing’s possible without a heart. Perhaps I should send you back to school, you idiot.”
It’s a bad laugh, it doesn’t even reach his eyes. The fingers of his right hand move a few inches toward you, the dead arm holds them back. You can’t take your eyes off your father.
“Darian, help me up, I’m lying in my own vomit, can’t you see that? Help me up and let’s get out of here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“I said, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean, I don’t think so? No one wants you to think.”
He’s right; it hurts, but he’s right. So keep it short and snappy. Spit it out.
“I don’t think you’re my father anymore.”