And I recognize his laugh before I can even make him out.
My father stands there waiting for me, a pistol hanging loose in his hand. In his other arm, he holds a baby bundled tight, tiny and red-faced, fists opening and closing as the child screams.
Something vicious twists through my chest. In an instant, I’m no longer a man, but a boy again. Thirteen.
I stand there looking at myself, at the baby, at the gun in my father’s hand, knowing that if I can just take it from him, I can stop this. I can kill him before he does what I already know he’s about to do.
I step forward. The boy does too. I jerk back, and he jerks back with me, mirroring every move like we’re tied together—which, of course, we are.
We’re the same person. I know that. But some stupid part of me still hopes that maybe this time will be different. That this time I can change something.
“Please,” I—we—say. “Papa, please. Don’t hurt him.”
The words rip out of me, but my father’s mouth curves like he’s entertained.
“What did I tell you about loving something?” He tsks with disapproval. “It makes you weak, synok. Have I taught you nothing?”
The baby cries louder, and I manage to thread closer, needing to do something.
“Give him away.” My hands shake. “Leave him anywhere. I don’t care. Just don’t…”
My father peers down at the child as if he’s considering it, then glares back at me with something like satisfaction. Because he has what he wants: proof that I care.
“Everything can be destroyed, or it will destroy you.” He sighs like he’s growing bored. “But I will not be the one to kill it.” He steps forward and presses the gun into my hand, forcing my fingers around it. “You will.”
The cold metal bites into my palm, and the younger me flinches. I can sense his fear, feel the metal in my own hand.
“No…” I shake my head, pushing it away. “I can’t.”
“Of course you will. You are a Marinov, or have you forgotten?”
My body locks up around the gun like it’s welded there, like the fear has spun my muscles to iron.
“Please, no, Papa,” I whisper, shaking my head and shoving the gun back to him. “I will do anything else. Just not this.”
“You will.”
“I won’t,” I force out, rougher now. “I will not hurt him. You can’t do this. This is evil, even for you.”
The punishment comes instantly. The back of the gun slams into my skull so hard my knees buckle, pain exploding behind my eyes.
“You will never speak to me like that!” my father says. “You do it again, and I will kill you.”
He lowers the baby to the grass in front of me, placing him down with terrifying care. He wriggles helplessly in the blanket, crying without pause, face turned toward me like he knows I’m supposed to be the one to save him.
My throat burns. “I won’t do it.”
I put myself between them, but my father is already lifting the weapon and pointing it at the baby. The sniveling grows frantic, the baby’s tiny chest hitching like it’s running out of air.
“You are a true disappointment,” my father says.
“No, no! Please.” My hands outstretch, but my father only pushes me out of the way.
The gunshot splits the night, so loud it cracks through me.
And the worst part isn’t the sound. It’s what follows: the sudden brutal silence where the crying used to be.
SLOANE
