“Worried my sister will see how ugly you are?” Ethan taunts.
The word ugly hits harder than any punch.
Because he’s right.
I have the kind of face that makes children cry and women look away.
I charge him. Blind rage replacingcalculation.
We crash into furniture. The nightstand tips. Something clatters to the floor.
The hunting knife.
My father’s knife.
The one he gave me.
Part of my rite of passage into manhood.
The same knife I planned to give Ben.
I grab it without thinking. Lunge forward.
Ethan sidesteps. Catches my wrist. Twists.
The knife falls.
He scoops it up.
For a moment we freeze. Him holding the blade. Me realizing what I just did.
Then he moves.
Drives forward with the knife aimed at my chest.
I grab his hands. Hold them. Stop the blade inches from my heart.
The irony hits me hard.
Killed by my own father’s hunting knife.
The symbol of manhood and all the bullshit traditions that led me to drag my daughter into the woods in the first place.
Wielded by my former best friend.
Appropriate.
I could let go. Let him finish it.
But my hands won’t release. Some survival instinct overrides my death wish.
I can’t do that to Ben.
Can’t make her lose both parents.
So I fight.
Fight with all my ebbing strength.
