“If they’re related to that guy,” Darius said, pointing up, vaguely towards wherever they were storing the dead body.
“They’re related,” Kit said, and everyone fell quiet. “Are you all ready? I’m only going to say this once.”
James moved closer, and Kit flinched away.
“Sorry, I can’t,” Kit stammered, then swallowed. “I can’t touch anyone right now.”
Hurt flashing quickly, James retreated. “Whatever you need.”
James sat next to Darius on the unchristened couch. Bishop took the armchair, and Holden hopped on the game table, legs swinging. All of them waited, silent.
James, who never pushed at Kit’s past.
Darius, who just made Kit promise his problems wouldn’t come back to bite him.
Holden, who selfishly clung to Kit’s secrets.
Bishop, who was never satisfied. Who dug for more broken pieces. Who Kit pushed away again and again for the sin of doing the smart thing.
Pacing like a caged animal, Kit began.
38
He never touched me.
“I need everyone to shut up. If you say a word, I’ll stop.
You can’t get angry, either. You can’t swear you’ll kill him. You can’t punch the wall, because he’s not here. Just me. I know this isn’t my fault, but if you get upset, I’ll feel like apologizing. And apologizing feels worse than cutting up my arms.
I’ll start at the beginning. No, I’ll start at the end.
He never touched me. That’s supposed to make it better. He never touched me like that.
Dad was retired, as long as I remember. He did some work here and there, to maintain his investments, as he called them. But mostly he was home, working on the house, spending time with me. I always felt special. Some kids at school hardly ever saw their dads.
Even when he took trips without me, he called every night, and he always brought back presents. I had a collection of card decks from everywhere he’d been.
He taught me how to play video games. How to make pancakes. How to shoot a gun.
He loved me. I wish he hadn’t, but he did.
Please, shut up, shut up, don’t move. I can hear you thinking.
Fuck, I hate talking about this. I’m a fucking coward. I owe it to all of them to, I don’t know, bear witness. But I don’t want it to be real.
I don’t want you to think about it when you look at me.
Dad wanted to fuck me.
He was obsessed.
But I had no idea. He never touched me like that. That’s the truth. I don’t think he was afraid of getting caught. I think he was just—just practical. If he hurt me for real, the fantasy was over.
He hurt kids who looked like me instead.
Sorry. I’m fine. Don’t move. I just need a second. Fuck. I just need a second. Okay.
I found the footage on his laptop when I was fourteen. I thought the photoswereme at first, before I realized what they were. But they were other kids. Too many other kids.
