Come As You Are Page 6

I followed August’s lead as he walked south on Market Street in the dark. I had no idea where we were going or what this party was going to be like, but I found myself both interested and apprehensive about what I would soon be experiencing.

  As August adjusted the backpack he carried, I heard a distinct clanking noise inside. I wanted to give my brother the benefit of the doubt, but a surge of anger moved through me as I heard the distinct sound yet again.

  “What’s in the bag?” I asked, stopping him mid-step by grabbing his forearm. “Is it alcohol?”

  “No! It’s not alcohol. I swear,” August protested, jerking his arm away more defensively than I would have expected. “I learned my lesson about drinking a couple of days ago,” he added, somewhat off-handedly.

  I eyed him skeptically and pointed to the bag. I knew better than to try and grab it, but I wanted to know what he was carrying around in it. “Then what’s inside?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” was his only response, and he turned to continue walking. As we came to a curve in the road and a sign that informed us we were making our way onto Young Street, I could hear what sounded like running water in the distance.

  “August, I need some answers!” I protested as we kept walking. “Where is this party? What am I getting myself into?”

  My brother turned back to me again with an annoyed yet oddly superior look on his face. “There is no party,” he sighed, sounding almost defeated. I noticed as he turned away from me, we were now standing at the base of a rickety-looking, wooden bridge. However, I quickly realized it wasn’t just any bridge; it was the Young Street Bridge. It was the bridge August had fallen off of a couple of nights before.

  I took a minute to observe the scene before me. The light was minimal, provided only by three dim streetlamps that were spaced out across the bridge that overstretched the Wishkah River. It was by no means an attractive or eye-catching bridge, but at the same time, it was completely mesmerizing.

  I found myself walking to the edge of the bridge, despite my slight fear of heights, and looking over to see exactly how far the drop was. About thirty feet below me, the Wishkah River flowed surprisingly smooth, with large, broken beams of wood protruding out of it, reaching up to the sky.

  “How did you miss these planks of wood when you fell?” I asked, turning my head to see that August had vanished. For a brief moment, I panicked, fearing he had taken the opportunity to flee, yet again. “August?”

  To my left, I could hear rustling in the grass and shrubs that led down to the riverbank.

  As I went against my better judgment and climbed to the bottom of the ravine, I took a second to glance up at the underbelly of the bridge; it was nothing special, old wood and metal twisted together to support the structure spanning across the river, but it was also a sight I’d never seen before in my life.

  As I reached the bottom, I could hear a strange noise coming from not too far away, yet I could not make out what it was. I took my steps cautiously, thinking back to all the times August had creatively scared me. Though he was older now, he was also better at finding small spaces to hide in and jump out of at the exact right moment.

  “Hello?” I called stupidly as another noise caught my attention. I was scared to death, but eager to discover the origin of the sound at the same time, along with hopefully finding August. I heard the sound again, a subtle pshhhhhh noise that repeated itself three more times. I immediately pictured myself in a horror movie, dangerously close to stumbling upon a deranged ax-murderer, but completely unable to turn back and save myself.

  I raised my nose upward, breathing in the harsh scent that filled the air around me. It was strong, thick, and dizzying.

  Suddenly, a flashlight beam shined in my face, and I found myself blinded as my brother’s voice rang out in an echo beneath the bridge. “Boo!”

  I stumbled backwards in fear, tripping over my own feet and falling onto a particularly soft, muddy portion of the riverbank. As I pulled myself to my feet again, the seat of my pants sticking to me, I asked angrily, “What are you doing down here?”

  August stifled laughter and grabbed my shoulder to help steady me as I nearly fell again. “Don’t get mad,” he said apprehensively. I could tell something was up. 

  I held back my anger as best I could, but frustration had to be apparent on my face. “What’s going on August? You’re acting all weird and cryptic. I don’t like it. First you say we’re going to a party, and then there is no party. Now we end up under the bridge you fell off of. This is strange and I’m not a fan. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  The glow of the flashlight in his hand illuminated his own face, which showed only an expression of indifference. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as if he’d not even realized he’d done anything wrong.

  “It’s alright,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I had said this to him. I was edging towards furious, and the fact that he had dragged me here in the first place made everything definitely not alright. “What are you doing down here?”

  August paused briefly as if choosing his words carefully. His face was proud yet hesitant as he held up a metal can of spray paint and shook it as if about to begin painting. “I’m leaving my mark on Aberdeen before I’m gone forever,” he said in the tone of a fledgling philosopher on the verge of explaining the mysteries of the universe.

  I was in disbelief as I saw the can in August’s hand and realized it must have been what he had been carrying in his backpack, along with the flashlight. I found myself wondering if he would actually graffiti public property. Of course, the bridge we were under was well-known for having once been a popular hangout for Kurt Cobain and had been tagged hundreds, if not thousands of times by fans and foes alike.

  “You’re serious?” I asked him.

  “Oh yeah, serious as a heart attack,” he said, tossing the can towards me. I instinctively caught it, my eyes drawn to three similar cans that sat, propped against several large rocks making up the bank of the Wishkah. “Or as serious as falling off a bridge, I guess… I was just getting ready to start, if you wanted to help out.”

  I was obviously opposed to the idea, yet I didn’t turn him down, instead asking, “What were you planning on leaving as your mark down here anyway?” I was curious, of course, and there was something oddly exhilarating about the chance we might be about to take.

  August sighed, gathering up the cans and leading me down the incline and fully underneath the bridge. The way the bridge sat against the land left little room to fully stand below it, though someone could if they tried hard enough. He pointed to a concrete support beam that rested against the dirt and grass directly below the street. “Come as you are,” he stated.

  “Come as you are?” I asked. “As in the Nirvana song?”

  “Not only as in the song, but as in the slogan of this entire town. I’ve kind of picked it up as my own catchphrase as well. It’s fitting, I think. I mean, who doesn’t it apply to, really? Who can really say that they ‘come as they are’ in this world?”

  “How very poetic of you,” I said sarcastically, turning away as if to leave. I had no intentions of going anywhere.

  I sat down, making myself comfortable in the raw dirt that lined the ground under the bridge. Looking up, I could see layer upon layer of graffiti covering the infrastructure of the bridge. While a part of me was completely opposed to the idea of vandalizing public property, another part of me thought that it was a really great idea for August to leave his mark on the town before being carted back to Anderson. At least this way he would have something to tell people about, other than falling off a bridge and barely having a scratch to prove it.

  As I sat there, contemplating August’s idea, he sat down next to me in the dirt. He looked at me as if to ask “Well?” and my phone vibrated in my pocket. I knew it had to be Mom trying to find out where we were and what was going on.

  I read the message and let out a deep sigh. “Mom’s trying to find us. I think she figured out we never made it b
ack from dinner. We should probably get back to the motel before she has a coronary,” I stated, noticing a twinge of sadness in my own voice. Truth be told, had she not been trying to get ahold of me, I would have likely given in to August’s whim as soon as he explained the idea to me.

  “What’s another hour?” he asked, standing up and smiling down at me. I knew he was about to use his powers of persuasion on me again, and I knew it was likely to work, just like last time. He’d been able to persuade me to attend an imaginary party, why not this?

  Before I could even process what I was doing, I grabbed a can of spray paint from the ground and made my way up to the support beam of the bridge, shaking the can as I climbed. August smiled, following me and grabbing a can for himself. As I held my arm up to mask my nose and mouth from the flying paint in the confined area, I said, “I can’t believe we’re doing this right now.”

  “Vandalism,” August stated, continuing to work on his masterpiece. I was surprised at how well it was coming together. August was creative, yes, but this reminded me of something done by a professional artist, not a runaway kid with a few cans of spray paint. “Beautiful as a rock in a cop’s face.”

  I contemplated it momentarily, thinking of how we were breaking the law. I had my questionable moments, but this was not like me at all. However, as I stared at how the blues, reds, yellows, and blacks were mixing together to create this beautiful mural, I couldn’t help but want to be a part of it. “Two conditions,” I stated firmly. August stared at me, waiting for me to lay down the rules. “Rule one is that we do not mention this to Mom, like ever. She would kill us both in a second.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “Rule two is that when we get back, you actually talk to her.”

  “Rule one, yes. Rule two, maybe,” August said, turning back to continue his work of art. He knew his words were not what I wanted to hear. Deciding not to fall for his brotherly charms, I shook my head and started to walk out from under the bridge, using my hands to steady myself as I climbed back up to the main road. “Wait!” he shouted after me, dropping his can of paint.

  “Are you going to talk to her? The two of you haven’t spoken since we picked you up today. I understand that this is a tough situation, but you have to be willing to compromise,” I said. “I love you, but you are a selfish little punk sometimes, and you killed her when you ran off. You killed all of us.”

  August was speechless, if only for a moment. His eyes were wide, as if no one had bothered to inform him that what he had done was wrong.

  “I don’t care if I have to tie both of you down and make you talk to each other, you will have an honest conversation with her when we get back to the motel. You’re not waiting until the drive home in the morning. You’re not waiting until we get back to California. You’re doing it tonight. Something’s gotta change here, and it starts with you.”

  I was shaking, furious, as my younger brother stared at me in disbelief. The last thing he had been expecting was for me to call him out on his lies, games, and bullshit all together. He’d gone into this situation playing the card of ‘victim,’ but the truth was that we had all been victims since the day he left.

  “You’re a hypocrite,” he said, almost inaudibly.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, outraged.

  August tossed his can onto the ground in disgust and tore into me. “You’ve barely talked to Mom the whole time we’ve been here, and the two of you didn’t even get into a fight! You took off and you left me to deal with everything for the past five years! How is that not worse than me avoiding my situation?” he cried.

  I wasn’t expecting the retaliation, but deep down, I knew he was right. August and I were similar in the sense that we both had run from what plagued us; I had just done it in a different manner. I’d moved out, and he had literally fled the state.

  “It’s not like that,” I tried to lie.

  “It’s just like that! You abandoned me!”

  The words stung and as I took them in, playing them over in my head, I could see in the dim light that tears were streaming down August’s face. He was visibly shaking and I feared that he was close to entering another manic episode. My cheeks were wet as well, but I quickly wiped away the tears with my sleeve, trying to hide them from August. I needed to get a hold on the situation before it got out of control.

  But it was too late. Before I could open my mouth to say anything, a bright spotlight shone down from the bridge above us. Someone called down, “Stay where you are! Don’t move!”

  “Shit,” I whispered, knowing that it had to be a police officer calling down to us. As I saw two men dressed in blue uniforms descending the hill, I turned to address my brother, saying “August, let me do the talk—“ But when I looked over my shoulder, I saw only an abandoned can of spray paint on the ground.

  August was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter 7