I remember her laughing, driving my car that first night. Remember thinking we should just keep going.
Why didn’t I follow my impulse? Everything could have been different.
My voice reflects my growing panic, turning harsh. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Instead of doing that, she opens the door and I overreact, jumping from the bed and trying to slam it shut before she can go through. In doing so, I bump against her hurt shoulder, making her cry out in pain.
“I’m sorry, just…” I run my hand through my hair.Don’t leave me.That’s what I want to say. Want to beg.Please don’t leave me.
The words should be simple to say but they’re not evensimple to think. I just wanted to have sex with her again, to hear that funny snort she made before she promptly fell asleep, that’s all.
How did I get this tangled up, my life winding around her until I can’t even stand to think of her leaving?
I wanted a brief respite from my life and instead she’s taken over the entire thing so I can barely go a minute without dreaming of her, wondering what she’s doing. Wanting to touch her,needingto touch her. Like she’s my oxygen and if I lose her, even for a few minutes, I’ll die.
“I killed my brother,” I shout, and the door is still fucking open, why is it open when I’m confessing the worst thing staining my soul? Why am I fuckingshoutingmy confession when anybody in the school could walk by?
But my panic doesn’t care. It just sees her trying to escape and I should be happy for her, rooting for her to go because who would want a part of this fucked up life if they had another option? Anything’s better. Anything. Even her disaster of a father who didn’t give a shit about her was a thousand times better than mine.
“It’s why I can’t…” My breath runs out and I grab for the bed behind me, my legs spilling me onto the mattress, feet skidding out from under me like the ground just turned to slick ice. “My dad he…” I shake my head, trying to clear it but the fuzziness just gets worse, the panic grips harder.
Then the door slams shut.
I gulp in a breath that does nothing. Nothing. My lungs don’t even try to pull the oxygen from it, mounting a protest, thumbing their noses at what I need.
She’s left. She slammed the door behind her on her way out and who could blame her? I’m so worthless that I’m drowning in perfectly good air.
Then the bed sinks to the side as she sits beside me. Her arms curl around my back and chest, clutching tight.
The pressure should make it harder to inhale but has the opposite effect. My head clears, my lungs drop their placards and get back to work. Strength flows back into my muscles, my limbs, my joints, until I can raise my arms and hug her back.
The same old images swamp my mind, dredged up from the dark sinkhole I keep throwing them down, always finding renewed vigour, bobbing up to the surface like a gently rotting corpse.
I want to be rid of them, to speak the truth of them aloud and banish them from my brain once and for all.
George runs her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, making small humming noises that are oddly soothing. She was about to leave but she stayed. I must make sure not to waste this unexpected gift.
“Patrick said they died a few years ago.”
I nod, relaxing as I understand she’s doing for me the same thing I did for her. Making educated guesses to ease the torment of formulating words for myself.
“He wasn’t in contact much before then?”
“No. Not much.” The understatement makes me smile and I pull her into my lap, needing to touch more of her, using her weight to anchor me. “Mum got child support paid into her account and occasionally I’d see him. We went to a family barbeque once and my stepmother threw a fit.”
“Your mum was… seeing him the whole time.”
My eyes flick open, and I stare into George’s eyes. “How did you—?”
She shrugs. “Just watching them at dinner, they were so coordinated. You don’t get that way in a year or two.”
“No.”
“He didn’t kill them for you. He did it for her.” She frowns. “But he needed to make you think it was about you or you would have rejected him because…”
Yeah.Because…My father was built from ‘because.’
The way she trails off makes me laugh even while I’m trying to puzzle out the rest of her words. I hadn’t seen it that way. Even now, it still feels like he was pitching to me, wanted me, wanted a replacement for his failed first attempt at a son and heir.
