Page 34 of Fueled Hate

“It is, and you know it.”

“Stop it.” Pressing my palms over my ears, I try my best to block out his words but they’re already in my head. “Stop it.”

I feel his fingers harshly grip my wrist pulling my hands away from my ears. I open my eyes, seeing the cruelest look I’ve ever seen in my life. “I blame you. You killed her.”

“No.” The word comes out as a sob, and my knees feel like they’re giving out. My brother blames me. He hates me. And the hardest part to accept is he’s right. It is my fault. She was only there because of me. I’ve pushed the thought out of my head a million times, but it’s front and center—it’s not only my guilty conscience, it’s his belief too. Does my dad blame me also? Is that why he doesn’t look at me the same? Why he’s so off around me? He blames me. They both do.

Bile rises in my throat as I bend forward, stumbling out of the room. I’m unsure where I’m going in the unfamiliar house, but I need out. I need air. Stepping into the daylight, I attempt to take in a deep breath, but I can’t catch my breath. Sobs pour out.

I hear a voice asking me what’s wrong, but it’s overpowered by the memory of my brother’s voice. By my father’s sad eyes. “It’s my fault. They hate me.”

The contents of my stomach empty onto the grass as my head spins. Falling to my knees, my hands hit the grass as the world around me fades.

I hate me too.

19

Sadie

Silence. Sometimes silence can speak louder than words, and right now, it is. At least that’s how it feels with the beeping from the heart monitor machine being the only sound slicing through the stillness. Dad sits in the only chair in the small hospital room while I sit on the bed just a few feet away. Other than his initial question asking if I was okay, he hasn’t said another word to me. He hasn’t looked at me either. His eyes study the bare walls of the room; only the necessities for emergency purposes hang near the bed.

Knock, knock. The sound interrupts my thoughts as the door pushes open, revealing Dr. Campbell who checked my vitals and questioned me a few hours ago. I couldn’t tell her much about what happened because I’m not sure either. My brother’s words are the only things I can recall clearly.

Dad stands, crossing his arms over his chest as Dr. Campbell approaches my bedside.

“All test results came back fine.” Dr Campbell looks over to the beeping machine, pressing a button before the arm cuff steadily gets tighter around my arm. Reading completed, the cuff loosens, displaying my blood pressure on the monitor. She gives me a smile so she must be satisfied by what she sees on the screen. “Are you feeling back to yourself?”

Nodding, I avoid looking over to my dad, not that it would make a difference since he still hasn’t looked at me.

“Okay. We’ll get the IV out, then you’ll be good to go home. Take it easy for the next few days, and follow up with your primary care physician soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I respond with no intention of doing either. My primary doctor is local to Staffordsville, but I need to get back to school. To be precise: I need to get away from here.

She leaves the room, and we sit in silence until a nurse walks in, removes the IV, and gives me some paperwork to sign and copies of follow-up care instructions. A few moments later, my dad and I are walking out of the ER, and I recall the time I’d walked the same path with my mom when I was nine years old. She’d brought me in to the ER after I’d sliced my foot open. Levi and I had been playing in a field across from my dad’s shop, running through the high grass until I’d felt something sharp puncture my foot. It turned out to be a broken glass bottle concealed by the overgrown brush. I’d screamed at the sight of blood gushing out of my foot, but she’d remained so calm the entire time. She’d stayed with me, talking about random things to distract me as we sat in the room, waiting on the doctor to stitch up my foot.

Once the doctor arrived, my mom moved to sit with me on the stiff hospital bed, holding my hand with tender support. Her calm, strong reassurance that everything would be okay kept me from freaking out when the doctor held up the needle he intended to numb my foot with. It hurt like hell, and I cried as he poked my foot several times, but even as I’d sobbed, my mom reassured me how strong I was and how well I was doing. Afterwards, I’d told her I wasn’t strong because I’d cried through most of the thirteen stitches. I’ve never forgotten the moment she smiled at me and said, “It takes more courage to shed a tear than to flash a fake smile.”

Her words may still be clear in my mind, but I haven’t lived by them. I don’t want to pretend everything is all right, but even more, I don’t want to cry in front of everyone—especially my dad. It makes me feel weak to succumb to my emotions, not stronger.

Stepping to the passenger door of his truck, I pull it open and slide into the cab as he hops into the driver’s seat.

“Can you drop me off at Clay’s so I can get my car?”

“Clay dropped it off at the house earlier. He said the keys are on the kitchen counter,” Dad says flatly, keeping his eyes fixated straight ahead on the road.

“Oh, okay.”

The remainder of the drive home is done in silence. As we pull into the driveway, I note my car but Levi’s truck nowhere in sight. “Where’s Levi?”

“He decided to stay at Clay’s house.”

Decided. Seems like there’s plenty he’s decided to do that he shouldn’t. Even Clay acknowledges Levi is in a downward spiral. I guess we both are—Levi just doesn’t care to hide it.

Following Dad into the house, I grab my keys off the counter.

“Where are you going?” Dad asks.

“I’m heading back to school.” There’s so much I want to say, want to ask, but the words don’t form as I turn to leave.