Head Like a Hole

by Andrew Van Wey

He gave Oksana another fifty count, then crossed to the driveway and stuck to the trees. There she was, nearing the twin amber doors of the summer home a hundred yards off. He edged closer, closer. Eighty yards now. Seventy.

It had been two years, five months, and twenty-two days since he’d last seen Oksana. And yeah, they’d both changed. Her hair, her skin, nearly everything about her was different.

Then his world sank into a deep ocean of shadows and he cursed himself with his dimming thoughts.

ADAM NO

“Meg.” “Oksana.”

“You’re a monster. We have nothing to discuss.” “I beg to differ.” “You murdered them.” “I settled our debts.”

“You. What are you doing here?” “Sweetie,” Petro said, “it’s time to come home.”

Because this wasn’t part of the plan. Because he hadn’t thrown the first bottle. And because Oksana’s face was twisting in anger or fury or— No, he realized. That was recognition.

Don’t lie to them, kid. These are hard men. Don’t feed them some bullshit.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ll try again. What happened to Oksana? Where did she go? Who was hiding her? Who else knows?”

“She started the fire. At your house, Meg, your parents. That was her. She said she was setting you free. That it was her gift to you.”

“What did we do?” Adam met her eyes. “You killed her. We all did. We all killed Oksana.”

A missing girl. A fisherman who went on a rampage. Six friends connected by this very house.

“None of us knew what she was. I tried to help, but she kept talking, kept screaming, kept saying such horrible things… So I hit her. With the shovel, I hit her again and again until she stopped talking.”

“What happened?” she asked. “Adam, what happened?” “When I hit you.”

“You… sent me over the cliff?” “We all did,”

“Fuck you,” she snarled at Petro. “And fuck you, Adam. You lied to me, you coward. And you…” She turned to Oksana. “I barely remember you. But fuck you for what you did to my parents. They weren’t perfect, but they were my family.”

That was her fault. Not because of some heater or overloaded power cord, but because of a careless comment she’d made to a friend.

Adam was simply shredded. As well as one of the handlers gripping Oksana’s pole.

Megan caught the red-yellow reflections of fire stretching up the halls and curling the wallpaper. She took the handle and slid the door open. And then the whole house rearranged.

As their lips locked and their bodies merged, Oksana’s fingers slid across Adam’s dimpling skin. And then slid underneath.

Then the doors opened on the right side of the hall. This time, Graham came to a stop. Because what stood inside had no business being there. Here was his daughter’s bedroom, just as they’d painted and decorated it through the years.

“Jennie? What are you doing here?” “Dad?” “I’m up here, sweetie. Is that… Is that really you?” “Dad, I’m coming. Don’t leave me, please!”

And that’s how he leaves them, Corey smiling his white smile from the porch, Megan’s cheeks flushed in the sunbeam, her eyes seething, betraying that placid mask she’s worn for so long.

“Dance with me, stranger.”

The reelection of Bill Clinton. My first taste of freedom behind the wheel of a car. The Unabomber. My first beer fresh from a keg.

I hope I’m evolving too. Just not as fast as Oksana.