RYE
No onereally cares why a grown-ass man is so damn pissed. I understand that. I'm not throwing myself a pity party. I pack up my truck, and I get the hell out of town. Just like my father told me to do.
I may be angry, but I'm not going to ruin my family over this. I can do what I'm told. Hell, I'll come up here and spend a few weeks pretending to clear my head then I’ll come back down the mountain. Burying the truth as I drive back to Home.
Of course, I know it's not going to fix anything.
The secret? Well, it's eaten me whole. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to handle that. Short of therapy. And hell, maybe that's where I'm headed. But today, I'm going to this hunting cabin that my great-great-grandfather built back in 1938 or some shit.
I start the drive early in the morning, a thermos of coffee at my side. The drive goes quickly. I’m listening to music, the forest growing denser the further into it I drive, the view fucking beautiful. Once I arrive at the cabin, I put my truck in park, stretching my legs and thanking God that the cabin is still standing here at all.
Inside, the cabin looks fine—nothing out of order but a few cobwebs and a bit of dust. Thankfully, this place is well insulated, and it was improved over the years. I guess I'm not the first Rough man to be sent out to the forest to clear his head.
I'm guessing, over the decades, whenever someone came up here, they put their toolbox to good use and continued to improve this family lot. Looking around, I’m guessing a woman was sent here a few times as well because the plaid curtains in the window don't look too shabby and the furniture looks decent.
I unload my truck and put my food in the cupboards. Fill the fridge with cans of beer and a gallon of milk. My dad was right; there is water and electricity. A bed, an old couch. A table for four. But nothing fancy.
Grabbing a flask full of whiskey and an axe, I head out to the clearing behind the cabin to chop wood, thinking I might as well do what my father said: start clearing my head.
First thing I gotta do is chop some goddamn wood for that fireplace or I’m going to freeze my balls off tonight.
Starting with a forgotten pile of logs, I get to chopping them up. Pretty soon, I’ve worked up a sweat.
I get lost in my thoughts as I work, my mind on the day things went sideways. The night my secret got buried deep.
Finding out the truth about the stolen money from Dad's company.
Confronting Luke.
The look on his face.
The shame, embarrassment, and hate that fueled him getting in his car.
Finding out the next morning that he was missing.
That his body had been found.
That he was dead.
Everyone thought he just took the turn on Rickshaw Ridge a little too fast.
Such a tragic accident.
It was so unlike Luke to drive up there so late at night.
My father's best friend for 20 years. He'd been an uncle to us all.
I chopthat wood harder until the sweat is rolling down my face.
It’s only thirty degrees out but I take off my flannel shirt. Wipe the sweat off my chest. I take a sip of that whiskey, hating the memories, knowing the truth.
It was not an accident.
I confronted Luke about what he'd done. He couldn't live with it.
I takethe axe in my hand, and just as I'm about to swing it down on a log and split that piece in two, I hear a woman's voice.
“Oh my God, there’s someone here,” she says, voice filled with relief.