Hope for Spring


 
 
 
 
 
 A NineStar Press Publication
 www.ninestarpress.com
 Hope for Spring
 ISBN: 978-1-64890-641-1
 © 2023 S.E. Smyth
 Cover Art © 2023 Natasha Snow
 Published in April 2023 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
 
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at [email protected].
 
 Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-642-8
 
 CONTENT WARNING:
 This book contains sexual content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of death, deceased family member, depression, homophobia, misandry, non-consent, dubious consent, and suicidal ideation.
 Hope for Spring
 
 S.E. Smyth
 Table of Contents
 Dedication
 Prologue
 Chapter One
 Chapter Two
 Chapter Three
 Chapter Four
 Chapter Five
 Chapter Six
 Chapter Seven
 Chapter Eight
 Chapter Nine
 Chapter Ten
 Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
 Chapter Thirteen
 Chapter Fourteen
 Chapter Fifteen
 Chapter Sixteen
 Chapter Seventeen
 Chapter Eighteen
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgements
 About the Author
 To all the people in all the places hoping for spring.
 Prologue
 I WISH I had left last night. I rummaged for memories, buried screaming feelings, and collapsed sleepless with anger. I hadn’t yet said thank you enough. All I can think about is how I’m so late, and I’m such a horrible person for not leaving last night. I lay awake blank, lifeless. I could’ve alleviated my frustrations by getting up and out early. It’s six thirty in the morning, and I slam the door and drop the storm door, loose in its frame, on top of the hardwood slab. I am unaware of time owing to a lack of sleep. That dicey balance surfaces. I’m somewhere between tolerable, excused unawareness and anxiety ridden fear—someone will ask me if something is wrong. Up at five forty-five, I shake myself with anger.
 Last night I went to bed perplexed, unsure how to explain what Uncle Mack means to me and what he signifies. Someone needed me, someone I should have paid back. I can feel death creeping over him miles away, and I am scared to touch him while he slips into darkness. He won’t know the sincerity. I’m afraid he won’t feel my emotion. It is everything I can do to rush to get to the hospital.
 Uncle Mack, a close family friend, saved my life when I barely even knew him. His short, wiry hair is a dull pile of disorder. His head is finally fully gray. Close friends would often tease him; he had a few more gray hairs than the last time they saw him. Mostly, they were referring to his past, the days of drinking and addiction that led to his downfall. Years before I met him again, before he saved my life, Mack had problems. Problems that likely caused the predicament, his hospital stay.
 Maybe, I shouldn’t go right away. Maybe, this scene, this event, this wake, isn’t for me. I would decide on the way. I grasp for Sue’s exact words, and I feel for my own pulse. I listen waiting for the words to resurface. All I remember is she beckoned me to come.
 It’s a long three-hour drive drawn out by slow gazes at scenery and reflective observations that take eyes off the road. The distractions pull me irritatingly off purpose. I’m trying to avoid rush hour, but traffic piles up just as it crashes into Friday night dinner plans. I mutter to myself, Traffic sucks all the time, anywhere, severely. The congestion pauses me and exhaust from the car in front of me circles. Anger rises and dwells on itself. My thoughts stick, tacky, to those feelings. My mind goes nowhere else. Traffic does this to me. The madness assaults and breaks me.
 My 2004 Subaru chugs along, but ten times over, I am ready to get one off the lot. The color is Silver Stone Metallic. That’s what the internet says when I look up the practically antique model online. I bought the car used, but that doesn’t mean the hunk of junk isn’t beautiful. This car, more than a mode of transportation, retains some inherent character I get to embellish. I’m not sure the thing is worth more than five hundred dollars. The car has power windows and a leather capped shifter but only one good visor and missing back seat headrests.
 The beast is the first car I bought on my own, paid for with dimes I found on the ground, hard earned paychecks, and a few dollars Mack once gave me over twenty years ago so I would get out of the house. I kept the money for several years. I feel comfortable in the car and smooth the arm rest with my hand. I realize I can’t remember a time in this car when I felt worse. My headache will not lift.
 I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to a beat, even though the music isn’t on. I can’t place a copyrighted song that might fit. The radio is off because I demand concentration. For once, I’m not having an attack of consuming reflections about life with layers of loaded regret. I’m not making concrete conclusions, so I don’t remember these feelings forever. They shouldn’t appear unexpected when I’m brushing my teeth or answering the phone. That’s fine with me.
 I breathe in, and there is still the issue, the reason I don’t appear alright. Uncle Mack is dying, and I don’t know how to say thank you. I need some words. TV captures death wrapped in poignancy. That’s what we come to know in absence of experience. Even though I realize this, I still want my fleeting time to be indelible. I want to capture