Brightside by Mark Tullius (i have read the book a hundred times TXT) đź“–
- Author: Mark Tullius
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Rachel didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. I felt awful though, so I went out the next day and crossed it out, replaced Michelle’s name with Rachel’s. It was childish, something an eighth grader would do, but it was better than what Rachel was doing back then, getting fingerbanged behind the gymnasium.
Rachel kicked the bed. She was back in range. “You got something to say?”
Fuck!
Thirty-nine days weren’t enough to get used to this. From Day 1, we all knew we weren’t alone. They told us being together in a group would make it easier, but it was so much worse. Everything on display, nowhere to hide. It’s what brought Rachel and me together. We thought we could elevate past all the dysfunctional relationships, especially our parents’, but we were even more dysfunctional, all honest and exposed, the little secrets and awful truths firing off like buckshot at anyone within range.
I’m not proud of it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the list. It was long. All the guys Rachel had been with, the depths she’d sunk.
“You’re fucking sick,” she said.
“What the hell happened last night? I remember going to Riley’s and you ordering those shots—”
“Oh, so you’re just drunk?”
“What’s your problem?”
“I shouldn’t care if you dream about her? That you gotta pretend I’m her to fuck me?”
As calm as I could, I said, “I don’t do that.”
Rachel’s jaw clenched so tight I thought she’d break teeth.
I usually have a great memory, one of the things I hate about myself. Not on Day 39. I was having trouble thinking, let alone remembering. The walk home was one big blur.
Rachel’s jaw relaxed. She was listening to my thoughts. I was trying to piece things together, grasping at vapors.
The smell of sex was stronger than my breath, and I guessed it was possible I imagined Rachel as Michelle. But I couldn’t admit that and saying I blacked out wouldn’t change anything. I put my hands over my head, as if that would block her out.
“I didn’t do that,” I said.
I heard her thought:
You’re a liar!
“Rachel, I don’t remember anything. If that happened, I’m sorry. I never should’ve had those shots.”
“So it’s all my fault?” She started pacing, moving in and out of range.
“Holy shit. Can you just stop? You’re acting crazy.”
Rachel smiled, breathed through her nose. “You want to see crazy?” Her voice scared the shit out of me. She was all the way on the other side of the room.
“Rachel, I know you’re angry. But you need to calm down—”
“You want me to calm down? Should I get some air? Maybe we should take a break. That’s what you want, right?”
Right then was my best chance of denying things, her by the door, both of us out of range, lights off so she couldn’t look me in the eyes. But I knew we weren’t going to work no matter how much I wanted it.
All I had to do was say it.
But I couldn’t.
“Rachel, come on...”
“Where should I go, Joe? Should I go back home? Huh? Oh right, I can’t. This is it.” Her smile was creeping me out. “This is home.”
I suddenly realized this was about so much more than Michelle. Rachel was cracking, like a dam ready to burst.
“Rachel, please, I’m begging—”
Rachel screamed like she was being burned. Her legs gave out. She thudded off the hardwood. She put her forehead to the floor. Her tiny fists strangled her matted hair and she just kept screaming.
The lights flashed on, the 120s blinding me even with the fixture over them.
“Rachel, come on, be quiet.”
I looked at the clock. We still had an hour before morning lights. They never came on early.
“Rachel, please!”
Her throat wouldn’t close, just kept spraying screams until I covered my ears.
“I think you’re great, Rachel. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t. Just please be quiet.”
She kept wailing.
And I knew they were coming.
Rachel knew it too, but she didn’t seem to care, just curled up under the bright lights. Everything exposed. The scar on her collarbone. The two-inch wide birthmark on her lower back. She banged the floor with her head, pleading for someone to let her go.
“I just want to go home,” she sobbed. “Why won’t they let us go?”
My head was pounding from the lights and the hangover, but I kept my voice nice and quiet when I said, “Just come to bed, okay? We’ll say you stubbed your toe.”
The bootsteps were coming.
Rachel, get over here NOW!
I jumped off the bed, felt foolish because my dick was just hanging there. But Rachel wasn’t looking at me. She was still crying to the floor, the voice not her at all. Broken and shattered. I yanked her arm, but she wouldn’t move.
The Boots were here.
It was going to hurt like hell, but I had to get close, right up against her so my thoughts would sound like they were coming through a megaphone.
GET UP! THEY’RE HERE! PLEASE!
Rachel made herself smaller, pressed her fists against the sides of her face.
They didn’t even knock, just opened the door. Two of them standing there, all calm, like they were here to fix the sink.
Rachel screamed, “Fuck you! You can’t keep us here! You can’t!”
I told Rachel to shut up.
She did, but only to spit in one guy’s face.
The guy didn’t even wipe it off, just twisted her arm, almost snapped it. She begged him to let her go. Then she clawed him in the eyes.
I stepped forward, my hands out to show them I wasn’t looking for a fight. “She had too much to drink. Please, don’t—”
The baton cracked off my skull and I fell. The boots walked right up to my face.
“You got anything else to say?”
I kept my face to the floor, listened as they dragged Rachel from my room, her screams slowly fading until they were gone.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS DAY 39 AND I was alone in my office, just Rachel’s desk to keep me company. I needed to look busy and pretended to type, my fingers tapping out nonsensical strings. I drank cup after cup of water so I could focus on my throbbing bladder, focus on anything but Rachel, the Boots dragging her from my room.
My computer dinged. A polite email reminding me of my quota.
Brightside required us to work. It wasn’t for the money. The government funded most everything. But Brightside needed us to keep busy, to feel productive. They started the jobs program after the first month. Too many Brightsiders had jumped off the mountain, took the easy way out.
Quotas kept us from living in our heads.
Busy people don’t kill themselves. That was the idea, at least.
I started dialing. Got twenty-four hang-ups, five don’t-call-me-ever-agains, and one old woman who spent three minutes asking about the weather in Greece before she realized I wasn’t her son.
I was one of the few Brightsiders allowed to make calls to the outside world. I’d been deemed a low risk. But everything was monitored. If I said one thing, like begged for help or told anyone the truth about this place, I’d be sitting in the Cabin dripping drool by night.
Finally, a guy actually sounded interested. I asked him if there was anywhere he dreamed of going.
The guy said, “Costa Rica. I’ve heard good things about that place.”
In three quick clicks, I was on their homepage. “Oh, definitely. Costa Rica’s great. Did you know the average temperature is seventy-two degrees?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, and they’ve got active volcanoes.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah, Costa Rica is definitely the place to go,” I said, “and we’ve got some incredible getaways available at great prices.”
Brightside had given me a sales script, which was shit, but deviation was against the rules.
“I don’t know,” the guy said. “How much would it run me?”
“I’m sure you’d qualify for our no-down-payment plan. And our smaller suites are under two hundred a month.”
“That’s nothing.”
“Exactly. Less than you probably spend on gas.” I checked the screen. “Are you still in management, Mr. Crawford?”
“Yeah, home enjoying a sick day.”
“Lucky man. How are your benefits over there? Do you have much vacation time built up?”
“Tons.”
“So what do you think? Would you like to own your very own Costa Rican condo? Doesn’t that sound like fun?” They told us to emphasize the word “fun” as much as possible.
“It does, but tell me this. Is prostitution really legal over there?”
The screen said Mr. Crawford had a wife and son, but that was none of my business. For all I knew, he’d gotten a divorce. The computers were never accurate.
I told him prostitution was legal and his laugh made me sick.
“Would you be looking for a one bedroom or two?” I asked.
“Just one. So tell me more about this. Are there brothels?”
“I believe so, now I’ve got some nice villas on the Pacific Ocean.”
“And I heard there’s no age limit.”
“That’s something you’ll have to check. Now, the place is right on the water. Why don’t we get the process started? If I can get your credit card number and verify a couple details, we’ll be done before you know it.”
“How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam?”
“Good question. Goes to show what a smart man you are. Why don’t I just email over a contract? Just click on the link and it’ll take you to our site. Brightside Travel is a very reputable company.”
“Holy shit, you’re one of those guys? Tell me what I’m thinking.”
“Uh...afraid it doesn’t work like that. If you give me your email address, I’ll send you the contract.”
A door opened and closed on Mr. Crawford’s end. A woman’s grating voice said, “Paul, what are you doing on the phone? You’re supposed to be sick.”
Sounding nothing like the man he’d been when she wasn’t around, Mr. Crawford said, “I’ll be off in a minute.”
I didn’t know if he was still listening to me, but I kept trying. “Tell her it’s a surprise. Tell her you’re doing something special for her, but don’t tell her what.” As quick as I could, I said, “You make this decision, and she’ll thank you.”
But he’d already hung up.
I’d told Carlos, my boss, the website’s name was hurting our ability to sell. Carlos said it reminded people Brightside allowed us to live productive lives. Again, I told him, it was hurting sales. Carlos said the P.R. was worth it.
Brightside wasn’t very profitable, but we only needed to make enough to cover what the government wouldn’t fund, like the ice cream parlor, movie theater, and electronics store.
If this had been BMW, I would’ve had papers everywhere, stacks of sales
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