Tommy’s shoulders hunched, and he turned to face Blake. He looked like he was trying to collapse in on himself. “I can’t.”
“I know it’s hard, but if we use every part of the deer and…I don’t know, maybe we can hide it in something, so it seems less meat-y.”
“It’s not that,” Tommy said, hugging himself. “I mean, it is, but it’s more like…I don’t know who I am without being a vegan. And if I give it up, if I let go of these principles, I don’t know...I’ll lose myself.”
“Tommy…” he cut himself off, listening to what he had been saying. For as long as Blake had known him, Tommy had been vegan. It was more than just his diet; it was part of his personality. And not in the obnoxious shove it in everyone’s faces way, but in that it was part of his moral fiber. Tommy was all doe eyes and compassion; it was stitched into his soul. It was rescuing stray animals when he couldn’t even take care of himself, and staying beside Blake when he was at his worst.
It was in his single-minded determination to open a jar of pickles that he probably wouldn’t even eat. He’d give it to one of his chickens and lie when someone, probably Phin, asked him about it.
This wasn’t a diet or a fad. This was who Tommy was.
“I get it,” Blake finally said, hating himself for the surprised look on Tommy’s face. “No meat. But maybe you could eat the chicken eggs? I know that’s not vegan, but at least you know these chickens. They’re not being tortured. Hell, they can even leave whenever they want.”
Chewing his lip, Tommy looked like he was considering that. Which was more than he was willing to do before. After a moment, Tommy nodded.
Dystopian living must have made Blake soft because the urge to tug Tommy into a hug was so strong, he had to physically hold himself back. He settled for ruffling Tommy’s hair so hard his whole body shook.
“And maybe the other teams can start looking for that tofurkey jerky crap you like. There’s no way that stuff will go bad. It’ll probably outlast the Twinkies.”
Tommy smiled up at him, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah, yeah.”
They got back to making lunch, the silence between them lighter. Tommy even started humming—some catchy tune that teased the edges of Blake’s memory. Just when he thought he knew the song, a note would change, and Blake was left hanging, grumpily telling Tommy to stop. The little shit just started whistling instead.
Preparing lunch was mostly just opening cans and plastic packages, seeing what could be heated up, and what needed to be burnt to a crisp on the off chance it might kill them.
Tommy dropped a tray of what looked like radioactive potatoes. Little twiggy branches were growing out of the pits in their skin. Tommy just hacked them off, wiping the potato dust off his fingers.
“How are you doing?” he asked as he tossed some nuked potatoes into a pot of water.
“Better before you make me eat whatever that is.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Imeantwith the whole…existential crisis, stare into the river moment you had. You and Gabriel are better, yeah?”
Blake fisted the can opener and wondered who he wanted to stab more—Tommy or himself.
It’s not that he didn’t want to talk to Tommy about his lingering issues with Gabriel; it’s that he didn’t want to have the problems at all. He wanted to shove them down. Push them so deep that a century from now, when some intrepid, underpaid scholar dug up his bones, they’d find the pain hidden behind his ribs, written in a script so faint it would come off with the rest of the dirt.
But unfortunately, no matter how hard he pushed, dug, and hid, they wouldn’t stay down. It was like closing a fridge door and hearing a thump. It’s someone else’s problem. Then the day comes when it’s him opening the door, and he’s hit in the foot with…a jar of pickles.
Full circle.
Gabriel had been trying. He was being more open, including Blake in decisions and conversations. He was making time for Blake, doing chores with him, eating with him. It was nice. And Blake would be lying if he said the burden hadn’t eased a little. But no amount of banter and flirting over collecting firewood would stop the nightmares. The sickening guilt that dragged at him like thorns, cutting deeper the harder he tried to pull away.
Because the only way to deal with a thorny bush was to stop. Examine it, and carefully extricate the tip. And most times it hurt. Sometimes it bled. Guilt was like that too. But Blake couldn’t remove this thorn. It burrowed deeper and deeper into his skin, not bleeding. No, this was worse. This was more like just underneath the skin, and no amount of picking could pull it out. You just had to wait for it to pop out on its own.
And how could it come out on its own when the people he’d wronged were dead? Their corpses wrapped in flimsy motel sheets, frozen, picked apart by animals and time. They didn’t even get a decent burial. No one said words over their bodies, because they didn’t know any. Didn’t know them. They were people—good, bad, indifferent, Blake didn’t know. He thoughtabout it sometimes. Tried to tell himself the sweet elderly lady who didn’t make it had probably poisoned her husband, or that the guy with the nose ring had overdue library books.
But the truth was probably much more mundane. They were probably just people. Imperfect people living their best lives who didn’t deserve to die under Blake’s hands. But they did. And Blake didn’t know how to fix it.
He couldn’t get better. He couldn’t learn from his mistakes. He couldn’t even blame the system or the circumstances that got them there.
Accountability tasted a lot like rock bottom. And it hurt twice as much.
They say the good thing about rock bottom is you can’t go any deeper, but you can’t get up either. Not when someone is holding you down. That boot on your chest might be there out of care, but it’s still just as suffocating.
Gabriel had apologized for everything, but that, and Blake knew it was because he wasn’t sorry. Not for keeping Blake safe. Even if it meant he couldn’t breathe.
“Yeah,” Blake said, not knowing if it was a lie or not. “We’re fine.”