Page 50 of String Boys

The laundry room he and his dad used sat in the space between two of the three apartments on the ground floor of the fourplex. Seth and his dad did laundry on Sundays, always, so he didn’t often run into the other people there, and the Cruzes had their own unit upstairs.

Seth fumbled for his key, his mind blank. Not even thought of the ocean could make this better. All he could think of was the black night and the obscene moon.

The laundry room was vacant.Oh, thank God.An old beach towel nobody wanted to claim sat on the folding counter in the cramped space, and a washcloth hung from the soaking sink. Without thinking about it, Seth started to strip.

T-shirt, cargo shorts, underwear.

It was all soaked with blood. Saturated. He took off his tennis shoes and added those to the load, surprised when he found quarters—just enough for a wash—in his pocket.

His hands were bloody too. Bloody as he touched his clothes, took everything off. After he shoved it all in the washer, adding soap from the communal box on the floor, he started running water in the sink. Then he scrubbed his face. Scrubbed his hands. Used the washcloth to scrub his arms, scrub his legs. To scrub his feet.

Rinsed. Scrubbed himself again.

Scrubbed the things he’d touched. Scrubbed the concrete he’d walked on, even though there were no prints. There was no blood on his shoes. How weird was that? Blood everywhere, on his hands, in his hair—

He stuck his head under the sink and rinsed it off again.

And his body, again.

The washer lapsed into spin cycle and the change in the sound startled him—his shoes thumped warningly inside.

He needed to go upstairs and put on some clothes.

He needed to get quarters so he could dry everything.

Or maybe he should run it through again, using bleach this time.

He needed to move.

He grabbed his keys from the bottom of the sink where he’d washed them off, and wrapped the faded beach towel around his waist.

Not a soul saw him walk to his front door wearing only a towel and terror. That would puzzle him in the years to come.

How could he have done something so terrible, so huge, and not a soul could say they’d seen him do it?

Where was God when all this was happening?

Where in the fuck was God?

That sound haunted him. Beat at his brain. Pounded in his head as he jumped in the shower, scalding himself with hot water until it too ran cold.

He’d brought clothes into the bathroom, and he dressed carefully, slowly, everything in his body hurting—his joints, bones, muscles, heart. He felt like an old man.

His father was standing outside the bathroom, staring at him like he’d never seen him before.

“Seth?”

“Daddy?” His voice was hoarse, like Kelly’s had been, and he’d looked in the mirror. He had marks on his face, his neck. His eyeball was blood red.

He looked like he’d been in a fight.

“Son…. Son, what happened?”

Seth swallowed, and it hurt too, and he had to fight not to look at his hands. “I….” But he couldn’t. He slid against the wall of the hallway, too exhausted to sob, weak tears trickling down the sides of his nose.

His father sat next to him and slung an arm over his shoulder. “What do I need to know, son?”

Seth swallowed again. He thought of that body, lying under the nightmare sky.