"Yellow Brooke" Remixed

Listen here, everyone in Burningham says we killed Gage. I promise we did not kill Gage. In my youth, I held any red Solo cup like a chalice. My life was vomiting Everclear into Gage’s toilet while he held my hair back, laughing through my hurling, ‘Only pussies puke.’ We’d chase anything to feel alive, anything to quell the numbness while avoiding our parents’ disappointment, only to have something chase back.

Lewis, Gage, and I drove around looking for something to do. Sitting in the back of Lewis’s minivan, I ignored Nookie blaring from the speakers with my hands clamped against my ears. I just wanted to forget asshole professors and the obnoxious amount of homework; didn’t they know we had lives? Gage snagged his red flannel sleeve as he passed me a joint from up front. Mom’d cut funds, forcing me to work at McDonald’s forever if she knew I was partying, empirical proof I was a fuckup. A lump formed in my neck as my throat tightened.

I took a long drag and pulled my cheat sheet out of my pocket; fruity smoke flooded my mouth and singed my throat as I read: Survivor’s guilt. Repression. Catharsis. Useless facts like this were supposed to secure me a better future? My body dissolved into the leather interior; my head slumped against the rest. A brown daddy longlegs skittered across the ceiling and dropped on me as I counted the cracks above. Cold pinpricks crept up my neck like a black widow’s legs. I slapped my shoulder furiously as if I were on fire.

“It’s a daddy longlegs, not a tarantula, pussy,” Gage laughed.

Lewis stretched a tattooed hand out, a black widow inked across his knuckles, black wiry legs curled around his sausage fingers. “Pass me a Bud!”

Gage looked out the window. “Why don’t we take a break for now?”

“Pass me a fuckin’ beer!” Lewis yanked the Bud out of Gage’s hand. He gulped it down, burped, and tossed the can out the window.

I took another drag, wondering when the acid was supposed to kick in. Wisps of gray smoke stung my eyes. My stomach gurgled as my guts melted; I felt like a fly being pumped with a spider’s venom. “Can we grab a burger somewhere?”

“We should hit Yellow Brooke first before the sun goes down. My sister, Brenna, and I smoke a bowl and hike there sometimes,” Gage suggested. “I’ve gotta take a piss, anyway.”

Lewis snorted. “Some creep got busted in those woods last year for dragging women off trail.”

“You probably snatched them,” I ashed the joint out the window.

Lewis’s tires screeched as he swerved down Burroughs Drive. I bounced in the air and bashed my head against the roof. The cheat sheet escaped my grasp and fluttered out the window. “Thanks, dickweed.”

Lewis sniggered. “Should’ve buckled up, buttercup.”

The road rippled and undulated like ocean waves. Trees pulsated as hairy, obsidian wolf-sized spiders scuttled across oaks; they melted into the trees, becoming one with them. Gage spilled out of the Odyssey when we pulled into the parking lot and sprinted for the forest.

I stared at the woods; colors of the surrounding trees, bushes, and flowers amplified, swirling in complex, undulating kaleidoscope patterns. Pine and citrus mingled in the air, spreading over my taste buds like thick, sticky globs of creamy peanut butter. A divine calm settled in me. If I were on fire, I’d be like one of those burning Buddhist monks.

“Are you done yet, Gage? What are you doing, sucking off Bigfoot?” Lewis mocked.

“It hasn’t even been a minute, shithead,” I flicked the roach at him. “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t chug yeti cock without you, sweet pea.”

Gage burst out of the woods, struggling to button his piss-soaked jeans. Sweat poured down his scruffy face. “Guys! There’s a girl trapped!”

“What’s wrong? Couldn’t stand over thirty seconds away from your boyfriend, honey?” I laughed.

Gage mopped sweat off his mug with the torn hem of his Radiohead shirt. “No, dipshit, I found a trapdoor by a tree. I heard someone from the other side crying for help.”

“Bullshit,” Lewis scoffed.

Gage stabbed a calloused finger at the trail. “Go check it out .”

We trailed the path—birds chirped their song, lilies swayed in the breeze. Gage tripped over a moss-covered plank covering something buried beneath the ground. Gage rushed to the boards. “Here. I heard it here.” We tossed the boards aside as wolf spiders scurried over our hands. Beneath was a rotted green door with two chains glinting around a silver padlock and a rusted handle covered in flecks of amethyst, moss, twigs, and dead flies.

“Please help me,” a frail, feminine voice pleaded. Her voice sounded like my grandmother’s last words on her deathbed.

Gage grabbed the brass handle. “It’s okay, we’re going to help you.”

Lewis snatched Gage’s arm. “Stop! This is a trap. Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient that suddenly we hear a woman screaming for help? Let the cops handle this; my dad’s drinking buddies with the chief.”

“A man put me here. I haven’t eaten or drunk for days; he did things to me,” the woman cried.

“We can’t leave her here,” I said.

Lewis ripped Gage from the door. “I’m not putting my ass on the line for a stranger.”

Gage jerked his arm free from Lewis’s grasp. “What if she’s dead by the time we get help? What if that were your mother, asshole!” His voice cracked as his hazel eyes swelled and his bottom lip trembled.

Lewis tore a clump of shaggy golden locks from his head, eyes darting around like a trapped rat. “Let’s go!”

Gage pushed past Lewis and struggled with the door. “Are you going to help me or not!”

My folks wouldn’t cut me off if I were a hero, if I saved this girl - I’d save myself. I scanned the area, dug through the dirt, spotted a purple baseball-sized rock, and smashed the lock. “I don’t want her blood on my hands.”

Gage flung the door open; the stench hit me like a fist. The air smelled like rotten hamburger meat and tasted like dust; a naked woman lay on the ground. She grimaced at the beams of sunlight striking her face. Gore and dirt caked her curly auburn hair; her sunken baby-blue eyes submerged in an ocean of purple, blackened flesh. Her delicate nose twisted in the opposite direction; blood and snot solidified beneath her nostrils; yellow pus oozed from broken scabs on her swollen lips. Bruises and gashes covered her rangy arms, slender hips, and plum-sized breasts.

Gage jumped into the chasm and took off his flannel, draping it over her. “Can you walk, ma’am?”

The woman shook her head as she wiped tears away.

Gage brushed dirt, twigs, and leaves out of her hair. “What’s your name?”

“Lola,” she grasped Gage’s hand and brought it to her cheek. “I owe you my life.” Lola’s flesh pulsated and twitched as if roaches were under her flesh.

Ƨnʁʌᴉʌoʁ’ƨ მnᴉɼϝ… ʁԍbʁԍƨƨᴉou… cɑϝμɑʁƨᴉƨ…

It’s like I told the police, my heart jack-hammered, my muscles constricted, and a yellow tsunami tore through my guts as suffocating panic consumed me. Lola seized his arm and tore it off; brown-red arcs sprayed the dirt. He dropped to his knees. He stared at the once incapacitated Lola as she tore at the limb like a lion ripping at a gazelle’s throat. Yellow liquid oozed from her mouth as she devoured, dissolving the limb. A horrible sound, like someone slurping noodles, flooded the cavern.

Eight black, spindly legs exploded from Lola’s back, thick and bristling. Her mouth stretched and contorted, growing wider to reveal two icicle-sized opal fangs. Eyes on her forehead and cheeks that weren’t there before opened one by one; eight amethyst eyes glowed like cold gems and stared back at me. Rigid brown setae spread over her, and the creature grew larger, metamorphosing into something with clacking mandibles.

Lewis picked up a grenade-shaped rock and hurled it at the abomination, chipping one of its fangs. “Damnit Gage, why’d you have to play hero?”

My brain froze; my eyes glued to that thing. I was like a fly caught in a web. I snatched a fist-sized rock and pegged the beast in one of its orbs. It shrieked as its eye snapped shut; Gage kicked a leg out from under the creature, sending it crashing. Gage struggled to his feet; he flattened a wiry leg beneath his boot and ground his heel down hard as it screeched in agony; a pool of yellow fluid seeped beneath his steel toe. My hand pistoned out as Gage ambled towards me. I gripped his hand, sweaty and slick with blood. Lewis hooked his arms around his waist, pulled him up, and dusted him off. I hugged him, and Lewis ruffled his shaggy brown hair.

A web shot out of the darkness, plastered on his back, and heaved him back down. Gage’s eyes filled with tears as he stretched his hand out; the spider’s silhouette engulfed him. Another web hit the door and slammed shut with a rattle. Venom burned through my muscles as I yanked the handle off the door. Knuckles repeatedly hit the door, causing it to become bruised, bloody, and torn. Helplessness washed over me like a gray tidal wave. Tears poured down my freckles.

.tliug s’rovivruS .noisserpeR .sisrahtaC

Pressure built in my brain until it felt like it was about to pop; this wasn’t real. My skin felt icy and prickly, like centipedes crawling underneath. Gage was gone. “W-we had him. We fucking had him,” I sobbed.

“W-we just can’t leave him here,” Lewis pushed me aside and wedged his fingers beneath the door. Squatting beside him, I crammed my fingers under the door, splinters jammed under my fingernails. My arms burned, and hands went numb. We dashed for the van when the screams stopped.

We had him...

At the police station, the cops side-eyed us as we told our story. Lips quivering as I spoke. Lewis kept sniffling and brushing tears away. They didn’t care about the drugs; the focus was on Lola and Gage. We told them we found a woman underneath a trapdoor in Yellow Brooke, and Gage jumped into the cavern to save her. They didn’t find the door, nor did they find Gage or Lola. Lewis and I were prime suspects in his disappearance since we were the last ones to see him. Eventually, we were let go because there was no evidence that Lewis or I killed Gage. Even though we were innocent in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of the public, we were guilty.

Survivor’s guilt… repression… catharsis….

A rumor that Lewis and I were Satanists and sacrificed Gage floated around campus. To combat the rumors, I told anyone who would listen to my story. In Econ 101, Professor Trager trembled as I described how torn running shoes, shattered femur bones, and broken skulls littered the spider-woman’s pit. In the cafe, Amy Turner white-knuckled her fork as I told her about the sapphire, boulder-sized eggs webbed to the wall; at McDonald’s, my co-worker, Ryan, grimaced when I mentioned the smell.

Gage’s family held a vigil in his honor. Brenna made a beeline for me when I showed up. Brown hair dangled over red, puffy, seafoam green eyes. She hawked a loogie in my eye, slapped me across the face, cursing me as she disappeared into the crowd. Someone scratched ‘KILLER’ into the hood of my jeep. His family also had the police in their sights; they publicly criticized the lack of effort to find their son and accused the chief of knowing what happened to Gage and covering it up at the behest of Lewis’s parents. The family announced that if the police wouldn’t help them, they would conduct their own investigation and find out what happened to Gage. Gage’s parents, a few other family members, and friends went into Yellow Brooke, determined to find answers. No one saw them again.

After Yellow Brooke, I took school seriously (I couldn’t let Gage’s demise be for nothing). From then on, I stayed sober; drugs were just another reminder. I refused to date for a decade; every girl looked like Lola. Lewis skipped class and stopped hanging out with me; he was like a ghost. Lewis dropped out of college and got a job at FedEx, stacking boxes and dodging eye contact. A mutual friend ran into him at the bar a few years ago. Lewis was skeletally thin, sallow-skinned, working the graveyard shift at 7-Eleven, selling meth out of the back. Half of his teeth were gone, the rest piss-yellow and rotten, and he wore a red flannel. Lewis said he saw the door in his dreams every night and always felt like something was watching him. His parents cut him off after Gage’s vigil, calling him a liability, saying his rotten ‘Satanist’ stench tarnished their family’s name and the firm’s rep. Left him with nothing, bolting to Florida. I read his obituary last year (I wish I had been there for him).

Now, grey, balding, and fat with useless psyche terms melted away, the fear of that night hits like a golf club to the nuts. Every morning, I wake up gagging on Gage’s screams; his wide eyes burned into my mind - It should’ve been me. A few times a year, I visit Gage’s cenotaph. For decades, I buried Yellow Brooke deep inside: I sobered up, married Sasha, had a son and daughter, and started a business. Sasha held my hand at breakfast, and I half-expected her to rip it off. I swallowed the urge to peg Mia with a rock when she got off the bus this afternoon. I worry about my son, Ron. He’s the same age I was when Lola happened. He flunked out of college after I bailed him out for possession, and he’s stuck flipping burgers.

Survivor’s guilt… repression… catharsis….

Everywhere has its legends: mutants with melon-sized heads hunting and eating people, Mothmen that cause disasters, and highways that melt people. In Burningham, we have Yellow Brooke. What if it’s me who’s haunted? What if we killed Gage with heads full of acid? Impossible, two idiot stoners like us wouldn’t get away with murder, right…. At dinner, despite knowing what happened at Yellow Brooke, Ron told me he was going there for a party. Shaking, I swallowed the knot in my throat, choking on my spit, white-knuckling the table’s edge. Ron looked at me as if he were looking at a stranger, then his eyes dropped to his meatloaf, shaking his head. Then, he told me I was a liar, and that he didn’t believe my stupid stories, and that I needed to stop trying to control him. Yellow dread pumped through my veins like a neurotoxin.

.…sisirahtaC …noisserpeR …tliug s’rovivruS

I flipped the marble table, shattering dishes, plates, and bowls—splattering everyone with mashed potatoes, yams, and peas. Mia clung to Sasha, burying her yam-covered head into Sasha’s potato-splattered blouse. Sasha stared with wide eyes, plump lips quivering. Ron stomped up the stairs. Sasha banished me to the couch for the night. I dreamt Ron was trapped in the pit with Lola, arm torn off, screaming for help — his fingers slipped through my grasp as he dropped into the blackness. I snapped awake, hyperventilating, drenched in sweat. Yellow light spilled through the living room window. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, yawning, I shook my blanket off and opened the door. Ron’s silhouette sliced through the grass and jumped into the back of an idling F-150 with a dent in the passenger side door; the truck peeled out of the driveway, speeding down the road. The abyss swallowed me as I bolted for my truck; the air tasted like pine and citrus. The whites of Gage’s eyes, mouth stretched into a scream, hand grasping for me played in my head as I rammed my key into the ignition.