The Darkest Joy Read Online Free Page A

friend. The GPS navigational system will tell me where I’m going.
    I take stock of the cabin. The TP is moldy and lank; a dry sliver of soap sits crumbled inside a cagelike chrome holder screwed above the old sink. My eyes move to the “shower.” I move the curtain aside. A huge showerhead, the chrome worn through to the brass casing, drips about every thirty seconds. Great . Somehow, I’ll have to experiment with how to get wet in there.
    I sigh, adding plumber’s tape to the list.
    I sling my backpacklike purse across my shoulder, head outside, and start up the bus. It zings to life beautifully.
    It’s colder than a witch’s tit on the shady side of an iceberg , I think, stuffing my hands between my knees.
    I let off the clutch and the bus lurches forward. I put it in first gear and crank down the hill.
    I make the solitary trek to town, which, as I live at the very end of East End Road, requires nearly fifteen minutes of winding driving. And though I’m from drippy Seattle where everywhere you look is a tapestry of greenery, I can’t help but notice the majesty this rugged place possesses. I carefully avoid handling the memories of Aunt Milli too intimately but her voice breaks through without my permission.
    The mountains are like jewels made of ice , Milli whispers inside my brain.
    My eyes move to the Kenai Fjords and their glacial peaks rise to my left, the long finger of Homer Spit, the world’s largest natural sand spit, holds its rows of small shops . . . and fishing boats moor to those mountains like an anchor at its feet.
    I tear my eyes away from the same view that’s just outside that dirty cabin I’m now living in and move into the parking area of Safeway.
    I get out of the bus and slam the door. It shrieks as I do, protesting.
    Pulling out my list, I write: W-D 40. Awesome invention , I think.
    I walk toward the glass door and pass some girls who are my age, their long dresses brightly colored with metallic thread picking up the low light of the morning and glittering as they move. Their skirts sweep the ground as they pass by me. One of them turns and looks at me, her deep eyes framed by a vaguely Amish-style cap with thin cotton ties. The girl stares.
    Sees something she knows, maybe.
    She says something in a language I don’t recognize.
    I look away. Sometimes strangers will recognize my sadness intuitively, though I try to hide it.
    I ignore my feelings of uneasy grief, as per usual, going through the automatic glass doors of the grocery store.
    I’ll just grab what I need, then rush back to my lonely little cabin where I can breathe, like an asthmatic without an inhaler. Solitude gives me oxygen.
    Just keep breathing .
    I don’t dwell on the precept that existing is not the same as living.
    I died that night five months ago, along with my family.

TWO

    I collapse backward on the couch and watch a plume of dust explode into the air, colliding with the dust motes that already float.
    Yuk .
    I fold my arm underneath my head, crossing my feet at the ankles, and scroll through my phone until my finger lands on Lacey’s image. I tap her face and wait as the dialing continues. I’m about ready to tap end call when she picks up, out of breath.
    “Brookie,” Lacey answers in a voice tinged with relief.
    “Yeah,” I say, a small smile on my face at just hearing her voice.
    “I told you to call right away, lame-ass,” she chastises, her voice at once distant with a touch of desperation and that “I need a Brooke fix.”
    I sigh, recrossing my legs as I watch the dust settle again.
    “Uh-huh . . . I was totally wiped.”
    Lacey gives a grunt of disapproval. “Well? How is . . . it?”
    I look around at the countertops littered with products from my supply run, the filth in every corner, the showerhead in the bathroom doing a slow, sporadic drip.
    “It’s . . . a dump.” I give a small laugh and it comes out sad.
    The open phone line’s ongoing buzz sounds during the pause of