not before I do everything in my power to make him pay for what he did to my little brother.
My heart pounds blood through my veins so fast that everything else slows in comparison. I reach down and tug the knife free from beneath the Motherâs hand. My muscles coil beneath me and explode up as I launch forward. My fury wonât let me stop. His fingers scratch across the wood, flipping the latch, but Iâm faster than either of us expects. My knife slices through his arm. Damaging his muscle, so when he reaches for the gun it dangles limply from his fingers.
Losing Nana and Sam in a few weeks was more than even I could take. The Father said they were punished for my mistakes. Both of their deaths were my fault. Now he had been punished, too.
I shake my head hard and push my palms against my temples, trying to shove away the images of what Iâd done. I donât want to see this, donât want to think about the loss of control and sanity. About the blood pumping in my ears so loud, so hard I couldnât think. Couldnât do anything but stab him. Even with the gun in his grasp, the Father couldnât protect himself from the monster Iâd become.
They were barely alive when I walked to their bedroom, took the money theyâd stolen from Nana, and ran.
I push my fingertips hard over my eyelids. No more thinking about them. They couldnât have survived. Impossible.
Not them. No, not them again. Never again.
Who else couldâve been watching me from the booth? Iâd walked past Brothersâs apartment today on my way to work. It is little more than rubble. He couldnât have survived that. Every instinct urges me to run home to Sanda, just in case, to be certain he hasnât taken her again.
He deserved to die. He had to. He was a bad man.
My chest hurts, quick gasps burn my lungs. I focus my energy and draw in a deep breath, trying to keep it as steady as I can. Whatever is happening, now is not the time to panic.
Cam walks in, smiling, and Iâm across the room in an instant.
âWhat happened?â My fingers are gripping onto his shirt before I realize what Iâm doing, but I donât care. âWho is it?â
âWhoa, calm down.â He curses under his breath and wraps both arms around me. Everything inside me withdraws from the world, the fear, his touch. I crumple to the floor and scoot into the corner to escape.
He keeps talking, his voice low enough I can barely hear him with my face buried against my knees. âIâm so sorry I scared you.â The remorse in his tone is pure and his concern reaches out to me through it, offering acceptance that I donât know how to receive. âThere isnât anyone in that booth. Mary doesnât remember seating anyone there. Your eyes mustâve been playing tricks on you.â
My fingers are balled into fists that refuse to release, and my emotion leaves me in a huge gush. I lean my head against the wall behind me, unable to hold it up under the mountain of everything that has happened in the last year. Flashes of Samâs body, his fresh grave, the blood, the Parents, the burning house, Brothersâs closet, Sandaâs eyes. They pelt me from every direction, unexpected, like hail in a summer storm. I donât cryâI canât. But Iâm humming, and Samâs humming, and I feel I might break under the weight of everything Iâve done, everything Iâve lost.
I donât know how many minutes pass, but when I become aware again Cam is sitting beside me, as close as possible without touching me. I hear a slight scratching sound and look down to see heâs rubbing his hand against the ground beside my fist, like somehow the comfort will pass through the ground and into me. I steal choking gasps of air. I donât know when I stopped humming, but Sam continues in my head. Itâs slower, quieter. Like Sam is trying to make me feel better.
Iâve calmed
My heart pounds blood through my veins so fast that everything else slows in comparison. I reach down and tug the knife free from beneath the Motherâs hand. My muscles coil beneath me and explode up as I launch forward. My fury wonât let me stop. His fingers scratch across the wood, flipping the latch, but Iâm faster than either of us expects. My knife slices through his arm. Damaging his muscle, so when he reaches for the gun it dangles limply from his fingers.
Losing Nana and Sam in a few weeks was more than even I could take. The Father said they were punished for my mistakes. Both of their deaths were my fault. Now he had been punished, too.
I shake my head hard and push my palms against my temples, trying to shove away the images of what Iâd done. I donât want to see this, donât want to think about the loss of control and sanity. About the blood pumping in my ears so loud, so hard I couldnât think. Couldnât do anything but stab him. Even with the gun in his grasp, the Father couldnât protect himself from the monster Iâd become.
They were barely alive when I walked to their bedroom, took the money theyâd stolen from Nana, and ran.
I push my fingertips hard over my eyelids. No more thinking about them. They couldnât have survived. Impossible.
Not them. No, not them again. Never again.
Who else couldâve been watching me from the booth? Iâd walked past Brothersâs apartment today on my way to work. It is little more than rubble. He couldnât have survived that. Every instinct urges me to run home to Sanda, just in case, to be certain he hasnât taken her again.
He deserved to die. He had to. He was a bad man.
My chest hurts, quick gasps burn my lungs. I focus my energy and draw in a deep breath, trying to keep it as steady as I can. Whatever is happening, now is not the time to panic.
Cam walks in, smiling, and Iâm across the room in an instant.
âWhat happened?â My fingers are gripping onto his shirt before I realize what Iâm doing, but I donât care. âWho is it?â
âWhoa, calm down.â He curses under his breath and wraps both arms around me. Everything inside me withdraws from the world, the fear, his touch. I crumple to the floor and scoot into the corner to escape.
He keeps talking, his voice low enough I can barely hear him with my face buried against my knees. âIâm so sorry I scared you.â The remorse in his tone is pure and his concern reaches out to me through it, offering acceptance that I donât know how to receive. âThere isnât anyone in that booth. Mary doesnât remember seating anyone there. Your eyes mustâve been playing tricks on you.â
My fingers are balled into fists that refuse to release, and my emotion leaves me in a huge gush. I lean my head against the wall behind me, unable to hold it up under the mountain of everything that has happened in the last year. Flashes of Samâs body, his fresh grave, the blood, the Parents, the burning house, Brothersâs closet, Sandaâs eyes. They pelt me from every direction, unexpected, like hail in a summer storm. I donât cryâI canât. But Iâm humming, and Samâs humming, and I feel I might break under the weight of everything Iâve done, everything Iâve lost.
I donât know how many minutes pass, but when I become aware again Cam is sitting beside me, as close as possible without touching me. I hear a slight scratching sound and look down to see heâs rubbing his hand against the ground beside my fist, like somehow the comfort will pass through the ground and into me. I steal choking gasps of air. I donât know when I stopped humming, but Sam continues in my head. Itâs slower, quieter. Like Sam is trying to make me feel better.
Iâve calmed
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