ISAAC
I never realizedI’d fallen asleep until I woke up with a grogginess that made it hard to think. My head ached, and I felt like someone had stuck me in a smoker. I grunted in annoyance. There were few things more annoying, in my opinion, than a nap you never saw coming and then being jarred awake to deal with the fallout. I’d had hangovers more pleasant, and I knew I needed to down half a gallon of water and walk around a little, and I would feel okay.
Wait...where was I?
Oh, right. Clay’s room.
The lights were dim, but my memory was returning. I remembered I had lain with him for... Well, I didn’t know how long. Neither of us had talked, but that was okay; sometimes the best way to communicate was without a single word. He had felt what I was trying to tell him, and I was willing to lie there for as long as he needed. It turned out that, apparently, I had been a lot more tired than I’d thought, and now the bed was empty.
“Clay?” I called softly, not wanting to startle him in case he was resting quietly and I couldn’t see him.
No answer. I rolled to the edge of the bed, sitting up to look around. Our cups of coffee were where we’d left them, mine onthe table and his on one of the shelves next to the bed where he usually left the latest book he was reading.
Except there was something else there I’d never seen before, and reaching for it, I thought perhaps he had found himself a new book. That was until I touched it and realized it was a picture frame. The lighting was low, but not so low that I couldn’t lean over to one of the lights next to the bed to see it. The frame was battered and scratched, as was the glass, and I was momentarily distracted by the wear marks on the frame, as if someone had continuously rubbed it countless times.
It was the picture, though, that sent my heart into my stomach, and I realized the heartbreak that followed Clay around like an eternal storm. The picture was taken at a beach. I could see the water in the background, and colorful umbrellas in the sand, which glistened from the warm sunlight.
Clay’s hair was a little longer, and he was grinning with an expression I had never seen anywhere near his face. One of his arms was wrapped around the shoulders of a beaming woman with hair as black as mine, her beautiful face tilted back, her mouth open in a free laugh frozen forever by the camera. His other arm was draped over the small shoulders of a little boy who, despite his youth and small size, was the spitting image of the man who held him close.
“Oh God,” I heard myself say, jerking in surprise when the bathroom door opened and a long-faced Clay emerged, his expression freezing when he saw me, twitching when he saw what was in my hand. “Clay?—”
“Give me that,” he hissed in a voice so full of panic and rage that I flinched, holding it out to him as gently as possible, treating it like the most precious thing in the world.
He took it, his hands shaking as he pulled it close to his chest like he feared he might drop it. He looked around the room, asif unsure what to do with himself, his face screwed up in an ugly look, and I braced myself for the rage.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, knowing it wouldn’t matter considering he was probably well past the point of caring what I had to say, but I needed to say it anyway. “It was sitting there, and I didn’t realize what it was. I swear, I didn’t hurt it.”
“I know you wouldn’t hurt them,” he said, his breath catching suddenly, and his voice cracked when he corrected himself. “It. You wouldn’t hurtit.”
“I wouldn’t,” I whispered, eyes prickling dangerously at the sight of him.
“Because it’s not them, it’s a picture...just a picture,” he said roughly, still holding the frame so tightly I was afraid he might accidentally break it in his desperation. “A picture. That’s all. A picture.”
“Clay,” I began, but I could see it was too late. He might have been spending time in that bathroom putting himself together, but I had accidentally tugged the loose string that would unravel it all, and now all I could do was bear witness.
“Because that’s all Ihave,” he hissed, agony and fury bound so tightly in his voice that it was a wonder he could breathe. “Pictures, videos, stories from others, and myself. I have her favorite sundress in my closet at home, tucked in plastic so it’s safe. And I h-have his favorite stuffed lion that he said was going to make him brave because I bought it for him. That’s what I have, and it’s not what I WANT, GODDAMMIT!”
Something flew across the room with a swipe of his hand, and for one terrified moment, I thought it was the picture until I saw the pieces of the coffee cup fall to the floor in a harsh clatter, spilling coffee everywhere.
“I was supposed to be there!” he bellowed, staring down at the picture like it was the most horrifying thing in existence, but he couldn’t bring himself to do more than hold it out beforehim, cradling it as gently as he could. “I was supposed to fix that fucking outlet! I kept putting it off, over and over. I told her, ‘I’ll get to it, Gina. I swear, Gina, when I have time,’ and I...never had time. There was always something for me to do, or I didn’t feel like it because, God, it was just a faulty outlet, but I knew better. Fucking hell, I knew better. I knew, and I knew, and I knew. I’d told so many people they needed to keep shit like that safe, but did I? No.”
This time, when he lashed out, it sent one of the chairs flying across the room, breaking it in half when it slammed into the wall.
“But I didn’t,” he said hoarsely, and my breath shuddered when he set the picture down, his fingers laying upon the glass...over their faces. “I went out. Just a few drinks with some guys from work. I won’t be home late...that’s what I told her. But I-I didn’t mean to stay out so late, and she’d always give me shit when I did, hungover and regretting my life. And I did it again and...that fucking outlet, that fucking wiring.”
The table was next when he snatched up the picture and, with a toss of his arm, sent the table flying into the air, flipping over before it hit the ground with a hard crash, making me wince as part of it flew off and hit somewhere out of sight.
“I didn’t,” he said weakly, wobbling as he looked for something else to take his rage out on. “They...w-were terrified and trying to get out, but they weren’t fast enough. They...they found them together, the firefighters. Gina was over Mikael, tucked under her as she’d tried to get them outside, but th-they?—”
His scream ripped through me, and the tears finally came as I heard his throat tearing itself apart to express the rage and grief that had no place to go. His knees gave out, and he collapsed backward onto his butt. If it hurt, he showed no sign as he gave another cry, this one weaker, but no less raw and heartbreaking.The picture was wrapped in his arms, held tight to his chest, sobbing, as he ducked his head and rocked.
Moving slowly so I didn’t startle him, I made my way over to where he sat on the ground. For the first time since meeting him, I didn’t know what to do in the face of so much raw grief, sorrow, guilt, and fury all happening at once. I had never lost like that. I had never suffered something so debilitating that I was left to sob my heart out over people who were beyond hurting.
He surprised me by wrapping his arms around my legs before I decided what to do. The picture was pushed into the back of one of my thighs, and his face into the front of the other as he gave another sob. “I fucking killed them, Isaac. They were myeverything, and I fucking killed them!”
“No, you didn’t,” I said softly, putting my hand on his head and wondering what the hell I was supposed to say. “It was an accident.”
“I ignored it. I knew better, and I ignored it...I fucking killed them,” he seethed, and my heart broke all over again. How long had he suffered? How long had he blamed himself? How long had he wished he could join his wife and son in death?
