Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
I picked the cemetery because I knew Mom couldn’t say no. After the way it all went down, what with Dad actually catching her with a raw, hard cock in her mouth, she would never refuse to stand at my father’s grave if I told her to. It was an unseasonably cold Saturday, and I watched the wind gnaw at her as she sat on the tailgate, ankles demurely crossed, hands clutched in her lap like a woman waiting for a firing squad.
The grave was on the northern slope, far from the main road, old trees crowding out the sky so the air always felt half-choked. Perfect for what I had planned. I made sure to park the car facing away from the maintenance shack, then I went about my business. I unloaded the duffel, the camera bags, the folded tripod, and the small steel lockbox. Mom just sat there, letting the cold soak through her skirt, staring at the grass like she was prepping for a pop quiz. She jumped a little when I slammed the trunk.
“C’mon,” I said. “Help me carry this.”
She rose, knees together, and followed. Her shoes were cheap, and they left faint tracks in the dirt. Dad would have hated the shoes. Mom would have hated the shoes too, except she was working a new angle these days: humility, contrition, whatever she thought I wanted. I could see her rehearsing it as she walked, the way she lowered her head at each headstone and made the sign of the cross, muttering the same formula she’d been raised on.
At the grave, I set the cameras up first. A wide shot from the path, a midrange from behind the headstone, another on a small arm clamped to the marble cross. The GoPros were cheap, the kind used by high schoolers for skateboarding videos and porn. I used three because one might fail, and this was a take I couldn’t reshoot.
“Felix,” she said, voice trembling but not from cold, “What’s all this?”
“Documentation,” I said. “For posterity.”
She blinked, then nodded, accepting it. I suppose she’d always needed to believe her life was being witnessed. Maybe that’s why she liked confession so much. Or why she sucked so much cock. The windsocks covered the microphones as I sat them up carefully just out of sight of the cameras.
“Will you at least tell me what this is about?” she tried. A flash of the old sharpness, the desperate need to manage the narrative. Irritation choked me and I had to take a deep breath so I didn’t explode. “Felix, answer me.”