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“Shoupe,” said Rafe. He’d hidden away behind the rocks long ago, and figured when nobody had come looking that he was safe. The breeze killed any vulnerability that might’ve reached them, anyhow. Rafe had been composed for days. He hadn’t shed another tear. He hadn’t thought about the corpse he let fall into a large pit of sand. Or the heat of the boy’s body that gradually disappeared the longer he dragged.
He couldn’t think, if he was honest. Where his mind used to be was now a static of guilt and.. something he hadn’t felt in years. Not since his mother.
It hurt, quite frankly. It hurt so bad that the second JJ’s name left his lips he was sobbing into his fist, sleeve ridden down under his wrist.
Shoupe was quiet. Understanding, maybe. Or shocked.
Rafe kept talking despite the gravel voice that kept cracking. “I—I was there.. I was.. Shoupe, I b—I buried him, okay? I did, I..” The sob came despite his best protests, even if it was choked and wet.
“JJ? No, not..” Shoupe was in disbelief.
Rafe had tried telling himself it wasn’t anything worth noting. But when the Pogues fell asleep grief-ridden, he’d sat with his head between his arms and let his saliva gather. He’d remained unmoving until someone moved. And only then did the autopilot response come; frustration, violence, an anger so thick he could barely breathe.
“Groff.. he.” Rafe tried but cut himself off again. It was weird, how he could go hours without a single twitch, but the second that name appeared he just broke completely. That same autopilot corrupting his mind. It was as if his body remembered the similarities and followed the wave in which the boy had gone. “He said he was going to Lisbon. But I don’t believe a word that lying bastard says.”
Shoupe sighed on the other end, barely distinctable through the harsh winds. “I’ll.. I—yeah. I’ll text you the details.”
Rafe sniffled, and rubbed his wet palm across his forehead. It was hot to the touch, probably red and spotted from his ugly crying. “This conversation didn’t happen, okay?”
“Of course not, Rafe.” Shoupe said it in a way that meant anything but. “I’ll, uh, catch you up.”
Rafe hung up before it could get too sentimental, even if they were already far past sentiments. Rafe might as well have poured his soul to the man. And for what? A simple “he’s dead” would’ve sufficed.
He couldn’t think, is what he told himself.
Don’t think.