Autumn Bleeds Into Winter

by Jeff Strand

In the summer of 1979, a few days after my fourteenth birthday, I was in the back of a van with an airbrushed panther on the side, trying to buy an untraceable pistol.

Until some kids disappeared. And I knew exactly who did it.

“Spit it out. These are your last words, so try to make them count. Don’t waste them on begging and pleading and degrading yourself. Think of something brave. Something you’d want quoted in the history books. Something that would make President Carter proud. Not that anybody will ever know your last words. Nobody will ever find out what happened to you, not your parents or anybody else, but for your own personal satisfaction, why not try to make your last words count? Make you a deal. If your last words impress me, I’ll bury you next to your friend.”

So I went home, presented the magazine—which, yes, I had kept all this time—and confessed to being a filthy little perv.

Would I ever be able to not think about it? How could I make it through any day without this consuming my every waking thought? Would I ever hit a point where it simply didn’t matter anymore, or was this my life now? Nothing but stomach-churning anxiety?

“Oh, I know, I know, and I believe you. But extra incentive can’t hurt. Watching your dog’s eyes bug out as it desperately tries to breathe tends to send a very memorable message. I can’t believe you don’t have a pet.”

“It’s my fault Todd was killed,” I said. “I’m not going to let something like that happen again.”