You would have let that happen because you weren’t strong enough.
I hit the door with my shoulder before a rational thought can form.
And you aren’t strong enough now.
You can’t even get to her through a door.What if she’s in actual danger?
My friends are dying, my daughter avoids me, my brother doesn’t trust me, and Rhea is afraid of me. The gunshots ring out, and I can’t seem to get to them; every memory I run through is dark and endless.You’ll never get to them in time.To her.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
“Whoa!” The bathroom door whips open, and Brighton stands there with glazed eyes. I pull off my headphones and set them slowly on the counter. “Brighton?” I stare at him, not daring to move an inch because he’s not focusing on anything.
His breathing is ragged—chest heaving like he can’t catch it. The door is split at the top, wood splintered in a jagged crack down the center, and his hands are bloodied, no doubt from hitting it.
“Hey,” I say, putting my hands up. “Hey,” I whisper, stepping forward.
I’ve never seen him so far gone, but it’s not scary, it’s heartbreaking. The tears are pouring from him like he can’t stop them, and his entire body is shaking violently. I move toward him, each step more terrifying than the last. I have no idea what he’ll do. This isn’t sleepwalking.
He’s awake—just not here.
My phone is in my back pocket.
Call Boone.
My brain screams at me, but every muscle in my body tells me differently,Don’t do that.I step forward, and Brighton doesn’t move. His hair is damp around his collar, and it’s so clear he’s in distress, but I don’t know how to help him out of this. It’s not the same.
“Help me out here, Brighton.” I chew on my lip and step forward again. His hand swings out. I step back just in time—close enough to feel the air of it, but it shakes me. Worse, it puts us off balance, and I'mstill cornered in the bathroom. His foot jitters. He’s counting himself down—seven taps, a long pause, then again.
I tried to remember all the conversations I had in therapy, every time my therapist told me that it wasn’t my problem to solve. That my father’s trauma was his own. All I can do is prepare, watch for the signs, understand the trauma, and be aware.
The Six.Brighton was the only survivor.It should have been seven.
Ever since he took that call this morning, he’s been bent, different. He hasn’t been himself. And he isn’t now. Something along the way triggered this.
Nausea hits hard. Gun oil and freshly cut grass flood my nose, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. Stuck rewatching my worst nightmare happening just out of reach.
“Control your movements. Inhale before you take the shot.” Dad sits at the shabby picnic table in the backyard while Reid swings his hockey stick, sending pucks flying one after another. They hit the back of the net with delicate swoosh sounds as Dad pulled apart his shotgun.
“Like that?” Reid asks, barely big enough for the stick he was bought, and Dad nods with pride. It’s a good day. But I know what happens next, I’ve watched it play out a million times. Reid pulls back, and instead of the puck hitting the net, it smashes hard against the shed, and Dad’s on his feet.
He stomps across the grass toward him, and before Reid understands that it’s not Dad anymore, he’s in the grass beneath him, gasping for breath. He claws at the ground as Dad screams about the enemy. “Run, Rhea!” he yells at me, and my body seizes. Reid is turning blue, his green eyes so vibrant before they lose their light for good.
Do something, Rhea. Do something! Protect yourself!
Bang.
It might be a mistake—but it feels good.You aren’t small anymore, Rhea, you made sure of that. You never have to be small again.
