But then my father came back. He dragged me out here and he’s making me watch as he digs the hole.
The shovel raises up high again, and this time something’s different. The sharp clunk as it smashes against my head, the hot blood that drips down my forehead.
I can’t feel any of it.
It’s not me.
My head hurts as I stare down at the boy. My hands can feel the metal in my hand, the wood of the handle as I watch the boy yank it away from the man.
It’s not me though.
I stare in horror as he slams the shovel into the man’s gut. He’s a small boy, like me. He’s skinny though, he’s dirty. And he’s a murderer.
His chest heaves as he beats the man several times with the shovel. Blood splatters on the ground. Over and over, even as the man lies dead and limp, the boy doesn’t stop.
The boy is angry, and he’s not well. I feel so sorry for him, but I’m too terrified to move.
I stay on the ground and watch as he slowly drags the man to the pit. It’s not much, but he’s tired and the boy can’t do anything other than move the man to the shallow grave.
When he looks up at me, my heart stops. The boy’s anger turns to something else, and his eyes narrow.
“Who are you?” he asks me. My heart beats fast and I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t remember who I am, I only remember my name.
“John,” I tell him.
The boy sniffles and looks down at the dead man in the dirt and then back at me, nodding. “I’m not John,” he says and it confuses me.
“My name’s Jay.”
Chapter 26
Robin
My heart is racing and won’t stop; it’s pounding so hard it hurts. My fingers tremble as I push the bathroom door open slowly. It creaks noisily, and I can’t even breathe.
I’m afraid of what I’ll find on the other side.
I heard the screaming, the fighting. The shattering of glass.
There’s no light on in the bathroom, but the stray light streaming in from the hallway reflects off the shards of mirror that litter the floor.
The door only stops when the knob hits the wall, and I stand there frozen in the doorway.
The cuts on his face and hands, the blood that drips down and covers his hand will forever be etched into my memory.
But the sight of him, the man I love so deeply and who I’m desperate to heal all the way down to his very soul, is wretched and it cracks my heart in two.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, his hands cover his face as he’s hunched over. But he’s alive. Wounded deeply, but still breathing.
“Jay,” I whisper his name, terrified I’ve said the wrong one. I wait with bated breath, the pain in my chest only intensifying as he sits still, ignoring me and making me question what to do.
Call for an ambulance. It’s obvious. He needs it. A psychotic break isn’t something I can handle on my own.
I take a hesitant step forward, not daring to flick on the light switch. I’m only wearing a pair of socks, but I keep to the right, and gently push the sharp pieces of glass out of my way as I walk toward him. I just need to hold him. I need him to know that it’s alright. It doesn’t matter how bad it gets, it will always be alright.
The glass clinks as I kick a chunk to the left and take another cautious step toward him.
Finally, he peeks up at me. My body freezes, and I try to figure out if he’s there. If Jay is present, or if John is the one sitting in front of me.
