Maverick McGee has three fractures in his skull.
It was hard to see them from the way he was sitting. Propped up in his truck, he looked as alive as he had that morning, except, of course, for the fact that he wasn’t. One arm flung out the window, an old spider off a web, long and spindly, you could see two types of moonshine clutched in that hand of his, reflected in those dead eyes.
You noticed the tattoos when you looked at Maverick. Up and down one arm, he probably got them to cover up old scars and track marks. Sara, a friend you’d never heard about. A bolt of lightning you know he can make move when he flexes. A bird in flight. Vines, crosses and Satan all drawn neatly in once living Technicolor, now faded. Living in unity, living in death. They’re numbers tattooed on his arm, all the good they’ll do him.
Maverick McGee has three fractures in his skull.
Fractures, the doctors tell you. That won’t kill a man. He must’ve wanted it, they tell you. Drunk and sad, they know why he left. But their eyes dart to the left and you can see something like fear reflected back at you. Doctors always have made you laugh.
You sit at home and think about who murdered Maverick McGee; that moonshine, the fractures, or those doctors. You’ll never know why he was a Maverick now.
Maverick McGee has three fractures in his skull, and you’re the only one who’ll admit that you have no idea why.