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Dylann sits alone on the weathered wooden bench at the edge of an old Confederate cemetery, the late afternoon sun filtering through Spanish moss that hangs heavy from the live oaks. His black hoodie is zipped up despite the mild January warmth, the faint outlines of a Rhodesian flag patch and an "88" visible on the sleeve. Combat boots planted in the dirt, he stares blankly at a row of sunken graves—faded CSA markers half-covered in pine needles and lichen. In his lap rests a small digital camera; he's been snapping photos of the tombstones all afternoon, the click of the shutter the only sound breaking the stillness.
He fidgets with a loose thread on his jeans, pale fingers restless, then pulls a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lights one slowly, and exhales toward the headstones. His bowl-cut hair falls across his forehead as he mutters under his breath, voice soft and drawling, barely louder than the breeze through the pines.
He takes another long drag from the cigarette—the end glows orange as he studies the graves, smoke swirling through the air. He looks like a lost, angry teenager at first glance, too thin for his tall frame, pale cheeks hollow, but something in his gaze is unflinching—almost cold. Despite the peaceful surroundings, Dylann seems coiled, simmering with barely restrained agitation.
Once it starts to get dark, he gets into his truck and heads back home. Lynyrd Skynyrd plays low on the stereo as Dylann sucks down another Marlboro Red. He takes the long gravel drive up to the house, passing weathered barns, fields ready for planting, and horses grazing near a white picket fence. Everything is familiar, steeped in routine, as the truck bounces along over washboard ruts. When he reaches the farmhouse, an ancient gray-weathered clapboard with a screened porch, his aunt waits on the front steps—an older woman in faded jeans and a frayed white blouse. She eyes him with sharp suspicion as he climbs out and tosses his empty cigarette pack into the bushes.
A little girl with a long blonde braid down her back bursts through the door, running down the steps and up to Dylann as he's getting out of his truck. She wraps her arms around his waist as tight as she can manage with how small she is.
Dylann smiles his rare, brief smile and pats her on the head, tousling her braid with one hand. The girl grins up at him with a gap-toothed, freckled face, then tugs on his jacket sleeve impatiently.
"I found somethin' for you," she says, still clinging to her cousin and beaming up at him.
The girl's mother goes back inside for a bit, definitely talking shit to his stepmom about how he reeks like smoke.
"What is it, darlin'?" Dylann asks, trying to walk with her hugging his leg and dragging her ass across the ground. "You're gonna get dirty, c'mon get up."
Dylann follows the little girl into the house. The screen door bangs shut behind them, the sound echoing through the hallway as they head for the back of the house. The interior is cluttered and warm, filled with mismatched furniture and photographs on the walls.
"Adeline, we're gonna eat soon. Don't be takin' out them toys and leavin' all over the damn place," her mother tells her.
"Okay!" she says obediently.
The smell of dinner cooking wafts through the house as she tugs Dylann into a small office space off to the side of the kitchen. A worn wood desk stands at the end of the room, and she goes over to a corner shelf and grabs up a small shoebox. He sits down in a squeaky chair beside the desk and leaning back, hands stuffed in pockets. He watches Adeline with a rare patience, the faintest hint of warmth in his gray-blue eyes.
She opens up the box to show him the bullet casings she found in the dirt in her backyard across town. They're obviously from some bygone era, sort of rusted and primitive. His eyes widen just slightly as he leans forward, reaching out to pick up one of the shells. He rubs at the rust with a thumb, flipping the thing over and studying it in his palm.
"You found these, huh?" His voice is a touch less monotone than usual, a hint of genuine interest in his words. He sets the shell back in the box and gives the girl a rare smile.
Adeline nods, crooked teeth full of pride in herself. "Do you know what it is?"
He rubs his chin with one hand, takes another glance at the girl as if she's a younger version of himself, brimming with curiosity and the wonder that often gets lost when we grow older.
"These? These are old... real old." He paused, turning the shell under the dim office light. "Probably from back in the 1800s. Confederate boys used bullets like this during our war."
His thumb traces a worn groove along one casing.
Adeline listens intently, resting her chin on his knee.
"Our war..." she echoes.
He pauses, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. His fingers still around the bullet casing.
"Yeah... our war." His voice is low, deliberate. “The only one worth rememberin’ right." Then he flicks the shell lightly against her nose—just enough to startle without hurting. "...betcha your teacher don’t tell ya that in school, huh?"
She bursts out laughing, flinching away from him and throwing herself back onto the carpet, giggling. "No. They taught us about the slaves."
The mention of those kinds of people makes his jaw tighten for a moment. He looks down at the bullet shells, his expression darkening subtly.
When he speaks, his tone is still even, but the edge is undeniable: "And what they tell you about 'em?"
"Ummm," Adeline starts, filing through the catalogue of her mind. "They saiddd... that they were brought from Africa and they went to the North to be free."
He scoffs under his breath, something sarcastic and bitter in that sound. "Free..." A pause, a beat where he's almost lost in thought. Then he lets out a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head.
"Dylann! Adeline!" his stepmother calls out from the kitchen.
Her voice snaps him out of whatever dark thought lingered, the quiet moment ruptured, the cold shield dropping back into place. He stands, smoothing his shirt and brushing off his knee, then shuts the shoebox of old casings and sets it carefully back on the shelf. Adeline reluctantly gets up off the floor but takes very orderly steps as she goes to take her seat at the table.
In the kitchen, Dylann slides into a seat beside the little girl, nodding his greeting to his stepmom. Same stiff politeness he uses with most people he doesn’t really like.
"You smell like stale cigarettes," she says, looking unimpressed.
His fingers twitch slightly around his fork, but he doesn't react beyond a slow blink. His voice stays flat when he answers—too controlled to be anything but deliberate.
"Yeah... reckon I do."
There's a beat of silence as he stabs at a chunk of green beans on his plate.
The words hang there—bitter, quiet defiance in every syllable.
His stepmother rolls her eyes. She's done with this house nowadays, even done with Dylann's father, but having to deal with an angsty teenage boy made it even easier for them to sleep in separate rooms lately. His dad’s sister just so happens to be her best friend, so she’s always over, offering support. She knows her brother is an asshole more than anyone.
The kitchen is warm and humid from the stove, the overhead light buzzing faintly.
Dylann’s stepmom spears a piece of chicken and clears her throat.
“So, Miss Adeline,” she starts, turning to the girl with exaggerated sweetness, “how’s third grade treatin’ you this year? Y’all still got that same teacher? The one with the crazy eyebrows?”
Adeline shrugs, mouth half-full of mashed potatoes. “Mrs. Langley. She’s okay. We’re learnin’ fractions now.”
Her mom jumps in, wiping her hands on paper towel. “Fractions in third grade? Lord, they didn’t teach me that till sixth. Y’all are gettin’ so smart these days. What else? Still doin’ that Black History Month stuff come February?”
Dylann snorts. “Oh, they do it all year now, don’t they? Adeline come home last week talkin’ about Rosa Parks again.”
Adeline giggles, not really getting the joke but liking that the attention. Dylann keeps his eyes on his plate, pushing things around and eating slowly.
His stepmom glances sideways at him, then back to her sister-in-law. “Speakin’ of school… Dylann, you still thinkin’ about that ROTC thing you mentioned?”
The table goes quieter. His aunt raises an eyebrow, chewing slower.
Dylann shrugs one shoulder, voice low and flat. “Yeah. Still thinkin’ about it.”
His aunt forces a little laugh. “Well, that’s somethin’. At least it’d get him up early and in a uniform. Lord knows this one sleeps till noon on weekends.”
His stepmom takes a drink of her sweet tea, smirking. “N here I thought you were gonna go full hermit, live in the woods with your camera and your… whatever y’all look at on the internet.” She waves a hand vaguely. “Military might actually be good for him. Structure. Haircut. All that.”
Dylann doesn’t look up. “It’s just an option.”
His aunt sighs, reaching for the cornbread. “It’s a better option than sittin’ in graveyards takin’ pictures of yourself smokin’. Daryl told me he saw your truck out there again the other day. Said he thought it was some weirdo at first, then saw who it was and was like, oh, it’s just my nephew.”
Adeline pipes up, swinging her legs under the table. “He was respectin’ the dead!”
Her mother gives her a tight smile. “Sweetie, why don’t you respect Auntie Paige’s cookin’ by eating’ it? She worked real hard.”
The women gossip for a while about the nobodies in their town that they’ve known since elementary school. The same old bullshit, same old people—characters swapped out. It’s like a soap opera for them and they’re the directors.
“May I be excused?” Adeline asks, licking her plate for comedic effect and to prove that she’s all done.
“Sure baby, wash your plate,” her mother tells her.
And she does what shes told—just like always—using a stepstool to be able to reach the sink. As she leaves, the dinner conversation shifts back to small-town gossip—a constant stream of complaints about their neighbors and familiar faces. It's a familiar cycle, a broken record playing the same old songs over and over. They drone on, the conversation a dull blur to Dylann as he picks at his food.
But when his stepmom starts in on his dad, her tone filled with irritation and frustration, he can't help but tune back in, his grip tightening around his fork.
Adeline comes back into the kitchen, perching her chin on the edge of the table and gripping it, swaying her hyper self back and forth beside Dylann, looking at his plate which is pretty much empty.
“Are you done?” she whines. “Can I go in your room?”
His attention snaps away from his stepmom's ranting as he looks at the girl, quietly exhaling as he nods. He glances down at his half-empty plate, then pushes it away.
"Yeah... go on." He hesitates, the faintest hint of a smirk. "Jus' don't be messin' with my stuff."
The girl nods, running off to his room upstairs and throwing open the door. She flicks the light on and breathes in the scent of cheap cologne and cat hair. A mess of half-assembled rifles lay on his desk and bullet casings in jars—but also stacks of old Confederate history books and worn-out photo albums left out where she can see them.
Dylann waits exactly three more minutes—just long enough for the kitchen chatter to get louder, his stepmom’s voice sharper—before pushing back from the table. His chair scrapes loud on purpose as he stands.
Adeline is flipping through a photo book of civil war soldiers missing parts of their faces or appendages. The bedroom door creaks when her cousin nudges it open with one boot. Dylann takes a seat at the edge of his bed after gently shutting the door.
Adeline flips through every single page, as usual. She always chooses that book to look at, learning bits and pieces of medical history over the years since she’s learned to read. She goes over to sit in Dylann’s lap nestling down against him to get comfortable as she turns the page. He puts out an arm and adjusts her weight against his chest without a word. His chin rests atop her head as his free hand picks up the book, helping to hold it open while she turns the pages.
It’s a silent understanding between them that she appreciates more than anything in the world. He is obviously her favorite, her hero, and the closest thing she has to an older brother. He was there the whole time she was even alive, after all.
She finishes the book silently, allowing him to carefully shut the book and set it aside before wrapping both arms around her slender frame. A long exhale follows as he leans back against the headboard, settling into a comfortable position with her in his lap. His fingers fiddle with a loose strand of her hair, a bit of idle playfulness.
A few seconds of silence pass, then his voice is low and quiet in her ear. "...you're a weird kid, y'know that?"
She giggles incessantly, squirming around in his grasp so she can flip around and lay chest to chest with him, still caged in his arms. “You’re weird too!”
Dylann huffs out a soft laugh at her squirms, but doesn't loosen his grip that easily. One of his arms slings around her waist to keep her still as she wriggles, his free hand coming up to playfully pinch her nose.
"Yeah," he replies, a smirk tugging at his mouth. His voice takes on a mock-serious tone as he pokes her side in retaliation for her squirming. “But you're weirder."
Adeline tries to give him an ‘evil’ look, pouting to try and hide a smile. She scoots back a little bit to feel his zipper press up against her just right, but doesn’t move much. Not yet.
He lifts an eyebrow at her expression, his smirk widening into an amused grin. He doesn't miss the slight shift, his fingers tightening involuntarily around her waist. His hand drifts from her side to her hip, a slow caress over her ass. The way she’s slid down his body has caused her dress to get all rucked up so her panties are the only thing separating her from the friction of denim. She starts to move her hips ever so slightly, her breath shallowing.
One of his hands moves to slide along her thigh, his touch light, almost tracing the edge of her panties. His gaze stays fixed on her face, watching her expression, tracking every little change. He can almost feel his heart rate pick up, a heat starting to stir deep in his gut. But he doesn't make the next move yet, just continues the slow tease, his fingers stilling on her hip.
A small whine comes from her as she begins to rut against him more urgently, grasping tightly at his shirt.
He sucks in a breath starting to get hard, his free hand gripping at the blanket below them. A low groan rumbles in his chest, his eyes going half-lidded as he watches her, his fingers tightening around her thigh. Almost casually, like he's just shifting to get comfortable, he presses his cock against her, giving her the friction she's craving.
His voice is low, barely a whisper: "This what you want?"
She nods vigorously, biting her lip. Her little breaths ghost across his lips—too far for him to be able to kiss her because she’s still so small. The friction of them being almost joined together if not for their clothes helps her climb closer and closer. Her hips move unevenly against his, no real rhythm to it at all.
His fingers dig into her hip as she edges herself along, his other hand coming up to tangle in her hair—not pulling, just holding. He exhales sharply through his nose when he notices the way she whimpers against him.
Then—without warning—he flips them both over so fast the bed creaks under their combined weight. Now she’s pinned beneath him, and that strip of denim between them feels like it might as well be nothing at all.
"Better hurry," Dylann rasps, “before somebody hears."
Adeline’s heart flutters as he takes control over the situation. She doesn’t ever know what to say to him when they do this, but the things he says always make it so much better than when she’s alone. She parts her legs a little more, squeezing her thighs against the stiff bulge in his pants each time she bucks her hips up.
She's the most precious little thing, freckles dusting her face and eyes like crystal. He's got over a foot and maybe two hundred pounds on her, so it's effortless to hold her in place, to keep her from moving away. The way she's trying to press up against him just makes it worse to not push things further, makes the fire under his skin burn hotter. Adeline’s breaths start drawing in shorter as she reaches her peak. Each time he drives his hips into her it sends a shockwave through her until she’s trembling and weak under him.
His hand comes up on to cup her flushed face, fingers clenching around fistfulls of sheets to keep his blunt nails from digging into her skin. His breathing is harsh in her ears, ragged and hot, their panting filling the dusty air around them. His eyes are closed, but he can feel her shudder and shake with aftershocks from her release. It makes something twist and burn deep in his chest that he just lets burn, lets the ache linger and linger even after he pulls away and rolls to lie beside her.
Adeline still hasn’t caught her breath, but she rolls right over to crawl up to him and press a brief, chaste kiss to his lips. It reminds him of how innocent she is.
It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. It sobers him up in an instant, the reality of the situation coming back in a surge of guilt. He should push her away. He should get up, get out of bed and go outside for a cigarette. But instead, he just lets her snuggle up against his chest, her small frame tucked against his side, one of her legs wrapped around his like usual.
Dylann sighs and shuts his eyes, wrapping a loose arm around her, his hand coming to rest on her hip.
Her little heart beats against him until eventually she drifts off to sleep. Dylann quietly and carefully gets up, tries not to let the door opening and shutting wake her either as he excuses himself to the bathroom. He hears his aunt and stepmom talking about him in the kitchen and his hand stills on the doorknob.
His aunt chuckles. “Boy’s always been quiet, but lately… Paige, I’m tellin’ you, he’s quieter than a church mouse on dope.”
Paige lowers her voice, leaning toward her sister-in-law like they’re trying not to be heard through the paper thin walls. “I found some stuff on his computer last week. Sites that are so… extreme. His daddy says ‘boys will be boys,’ but I’m like, boys will be boys till the FBI knocks, you know?”
His aunt’s eyes widen with delicious scandal. “What kinda sites?”
What Dylann originally planned to do in the bathroom isn’t even on his mind anymore, but he goes in anyway just to make his presence known. He glances at the mirror while he's washing his hands, taking in his own reflection for a second. His hair is messy, eyes tired, and there's a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks, like he's been running or working out. But his expression is hard again, like the cold mask has slipped back into place.
He doesn't linger any longer. Instead, he quickly dries his hands with a towel and heads back out into the hallway, the sound of yapping in the kitchen quieting as he goes back into his room.