“Please don’t.”
Finally, a hint of wetness swells in his eyes, pulled from some reservoir deep within his body. His lower lip trembles, making him look so much like a child, and I rub my thumbs gently across his cheekbones, over and over, to hold his attention.
“Please don’t, Tadhg.”
There’s a tremor in his hand, finally, and it falls a fraction of an inch away from his head.
Taking a risk, I let go of his neck at the same time as I lean my forehead into his. If he wants to shoot himself, he’ll have to shoot me too, and I know he never would. My left hand wraps itself around his, which is wrapped in turn around the gun, and together we bring it to down to the floor at an excruciatingly slow pace.
Once it’s on the ground, I can feel him unclench his fingers, one by one. It feels like it physically hurts, but he does it. Until eventually the gun is lying there, untouched, and I have my brother’s hand cradled in mine.
I bring it back up until both our hands are between our chests. I’m trying my best to breathe steadily, when somewhere along the way, Tadhg’s chest started to heave like he’s on the verge of having another panic attack.
I’ve kept myself so tightly controlled this whole time, but as soon as the gun is gone, it feels like something inside me snaps, and a sob escapes me.
That was too close. I won’t let this happen again. I forbid it.
My sob triggers something in Tadhg, and he finally starts to cry. It’s quiet, but I can tell. My forehead is still leaning against his, but I can see his eyes squeezed shut and feel how his rapid, shuddery breathing racks his body.
“Just let me take care of you, okay?” I finally ask in a thick voice.
He doesn’t answer, but I feel him nod against me, even though his eyes are still closed.
I take a deep breath and prepare to lean back and give him a little room, but he doesn’t let me. His left hand snakes out and grabs my scrub top, fisting it and holding me so tightly I couldn’t go anywhere, no matter how hard I tried.
That’s when I know it’s sunk in. That he means it.
Still, I say it one more time, so he knows I really mean it, too.
“Just let me take care of you.”
Chapter Eleven
Savage
All that manic, jittery energy from before is gone. My normal destructive urges, the ones that are directed both outward and inward, are gone.
The only thing that’s left is an endless expanse of numb exhaustion.
And Micah.
Micah with his calm, commanding voice telling me what to do.
Tadhg, don’t let your father bully you.
Tadhg, you don’t have to be a worthless, violent sack of shit if you would just put some effort in.
Tadhg, don’t spray your brains all over my linoleum, please. I really don’t want to clean it up.
He hasn’t actually said any of those things, but the implication is there. I hear it.
When Colm dragged my sorry ass inside after the meeting, he’d tried to hang out with me for a while, but I’d told him to get lost. I made some excuse about needing to rest.
As if he couldn’t tell I hadn’t slept properly for days. Maybe that’s what’s getting to me. I always feel shitty, but it could be the lack of sleep that’s specifically making me feel like the world ripped my skin off and keeps slow-dripping acid on every soft, exposed piece of flesh that it can find.
I just wanted it to stop.
I just needed to sleep.
