Sound of Silence
Sound of Silence
Author: Elizabeth Miller
PART ONE
"The trouble is you think you have time."-Buddha
Dear Justin.
Today I have loved you for forty-two days, five hours and six minutes. You might ask how it's possible for me to be so specific but it's a simple answer. I remember the exact moment I fell off the cliff of reason and into this insanity. On July 3rd at 1:40 P.M. in front of Carly's Custard, you, Justin Taylor Weber, walked up to me and said hello.
That was the end of me and the beginning of us.
x Piper
CHAPTER ONE
Lawless
Caden
DEATH FOLLOWS ME home. My companions-Gus, an albino German Shepherd who found me in West Virginia-and a ghost I once knew and loved as my brother. A man far better than me, a friend, a SEAL, a fiancé, and a soon-to-be father. For twelve years, we fought side by side until a bullet and the good Lord decided it was his time to raise hell behind the pearly gates. I can't say I've made peace with it, even though he's in my head telling me he has.
A promise brought me here. Guilt destroyed me on the way. Responsibility lies heavy on my shoulders, and traveling from D.C. to the Oregon coast gave me plenty of time to prepare for grief stronger than my own. Three thousand miles to think about what to say, what to do, how to become someone Piper Stevens needs more than hollow consolation. 'I'm sorry' means shit. 'I'm sorry' is nothing but an empty phrase that does nothing but bring forth the memory of what's missing-who is missing. Justin is not coming back. Not to be my friend or her husband. Or a father to the baby she's weeks away from delivering.
After all this time on the road, I have no plan. I've only decided facing Piper is more daunting than the Taliban. Bullets I can handle, but Jesus, tears gut me.
I moan and grip my hair, as if I can pull reality from my thoughts. The move disrupts Gus just enough for him to lift his head and stare at me with his black eyes. He looks, head tilted, like he can see through me, and even though I'm the biggest asshole I know, he's found some shred of salvation and absolves me of my sins. I grab his nape and hang on to soft fur and life, enjoying the last miles of freedom.
Dusk crawls into the cab in lazy yellow and orange ribbons, softening the peeling dash of my '57 Chevy. As if inviting me home, the rays bring the salty scent of the sea and fish and childhood memories follow. I like the ocean. For all of its pent up energy and the rage it sometimes personifies, crashing surf has a whole lot of calming inclinations. When my dad bailed on the family, I'd spend my mornings lying on the shore listening to waves speak their language. I never quite understood what they wanted me to hear, but when I walked away I always felt lighter than I did when I first sat down.
The water and my family aren't the only things I've missed about Lilyfalls. Nestled along the rocky coast of the Pacific, it's just big enough to have one of everything. A bar and a grocery store, a drive-through and a diner, a laundromat and a church where the permanent residents pray the summer part-timers don't ruin the quaint traditions.
I hit the outskirts of city limits just before nightfall. Not much has changed in fifteen years but for the number of mansions lining the beach and a bakery on the corner of Main and Third. My mouth waters for home-cooked meals before my stomach sours. My mother will skin my tail for not calling ahead, and then there's my sister. I flinch. Dear God, Cara's worse than tears. She'll wield the fucking knife to disembowel me like the elk she shot when we were ten. That woman can handle a rifle as well as any man I've served with. And she's not afraid to use it.
For the moment, I ignore thoughts of my family and focus on the cottages just north of town. Built in the late 70s, the two-room stilted structures were once a haven for tourists. But times changed. The 90s brought larger places closer to the water, and the less-than-privileged moved into the crumbling cabins.
Gravel pops up behind me, crackling against the truck's metal frame. I slow and roll to a stop out front of the last bungalow in a line of ten, dwarfed by a row of overgrown cedars in the rear. Gus's head pops up, as do his ears. His expectant dark eyes watch me as he pants through whatever happy thought his puppy brain conjures.
"Come on, buddy. You ready for this?"
I take his muffled bark as a yes and scratch his neck while sliding from the cab. Sometime between birth and when I found him withering on the side of Highway 10, Gus lost most of his vocal cords. I'd kill the bastards who let him loose if I ever found them, but instead I found a twenty-four-hour vet that treated the mites in his ears and pumped him full of fluids. A diet of the best pup food has beefed him up over the last few days, but he's got a way to go to catch up to the growth chart for an eight-week-old puppy.
Author: Elizabeth Miller
PART ONE
"The trouble is you think you have time."-Buddha
Dear Justin.
Today I have loved you for forty-two days, five hours and six minutes. You might ask how it's possible for me to be so specific but it's a simple answer. I remember the exact moment I fell off the cliff of reason and into this insanity. On July 3rd at 1:40 P.M. in front of Carly's Custard, you, Justin Taylor Weber, walked up to me and said hello.
That was the end of me and the beginning of us.
x Piper
CHAPTER ONE
Lawless
Caden
DEATH FOLLOWS ME home. My companions-Gus, an albino German Shepherd who found me in West Virginia-and a ghost I once knew and loved as my brother. A man far better than me, a friend, a SEAL, a fiancé, and a soon-to-be father. For twelve years, we fought side by side until a bullet and the good Lord decided it was his time to raise hell behind the pearly gates. I can't say I've made peace with it, even though he's in my head telling me he has.
A promise brought me here. Guilt destroyed me on the way. Responsibility lies heavy on my shoulders, and traveling from D.C. to the Oregon coast gave me plenty of time to prepare for grief stronger than my own. Three thousand miles to think about what to say, what to do, how to become someone Piper Stevens needs more than hollow consolation. 'I'm sorry' means shit. 'I'm sorry' is nothing but an empty phrase that does nothing but bring forth the memory of what's missing-who is missing. Justin is not coming back. Not to be my friend or her husband. Or a father to the baby she's weeks away from delivering.
After all this time on the road, I have no plan. I've only decided facing Piper is more daunting than the Taliban. Bullets I can handle, but Jesus, tears gut me.
I moan and grip my hair, as if I can pull reality from my thoughts. The move disrupts Gus just enough for him to lift his head and stare at me with his black eyes. He looks, head tilted, like he can see through me, and even though I'm the biggest asshole I know, he's found some shred of salvation and absolves me of my sins. I grab his nape and hang on to soft fur and life, enjoying the last miles of freedom.
Dusk crawls into the cab in lazy yellow and orange ribbons, softening the peeling dash of my '57 Chevy. As if inviting me home, the rays bring the salty scent of the sea and fish and childhood memories follow. I like the ocean. For all of its pent up energy and the rage it sometimes personifies, crashing surf has a whole lot of calming inclinations. When my dad bailed on the family, I'd spend my mornings lying on the shore listening to waves speak their language. I never quite understood what they wanted me to hear, but when I walked away I always felt lighter than I did when I first sat down.
The water and my family aren't the only things I've missed about Lilyfalls. Nestled along the rocky coast of the Pacific, it's just big enough to have one of everything. A bar and a grocery store, a drive-through and a diner, a laundromat and a church where the permanent residents pray the summer part-timers don't ruin the quaint traditions.
I hit the outskirts of city limits just before nightfall. Not much has changed in fifteen years but for the number of mansions lining the beach and a bakery on the corner of Main and Third. My mouth waters for home-cooked meals before my stomach sours. My mother will skin my tail for not calling ahead, and then there's my sister. I flinch. Dear God, Cara's worse than tears. She'll wield the fucking knife to disembowel me like the elk she shot when we were ten. That woman can handle a rifle as well as any man I've served with. And she's not afraid to use it.
For the moment, I ignore thoughts of my family and focus on the cottages just north of town. Built in the late 70s, the two-room stilted structures were once a haven for tourists. But times changed. The 90s brought larger places closer to the water, and the less-than-privileged moved into the crumbling cabins.
Gravel pops up behind me, crackling against the truck's metal frame. I slow and roll to a stop out front of the last bungalow in a line of ten, dwarfed by a row of overgrown cedars in the rear. Gus's head pops up, as do his ears. His expectant dark eyes watch me as he pants through whatever happy thought his puppy brain conjures.
"Come on, buddy. You ready for this?"
I take his muffled bark as a yes and scratch his neck while sliding from the cab. Sometime between birth and when I found him withering on the side of Highway 10, Gus lost most of his vocal cords. I'd kill the bastards who let him loose if I ever found them, but instead I found a twenty-four-hour vet that treated the mites in his ears and pumped him full of fluids. A diet of the best pup food has beefed him up over the last few days, but he's got a way to go to catch up to the growth chart for an eight-week-old puppy.