Page 49

My body couldn’t decide what it was supposed to do. My hands were shaking. I hated them. I hated how useless they looked hanging at my sides.

My father’s voice came from the bedroom. My mother screamed again. I heard thuds and bangs. She was fighting for her life. He was stronger.

The house went silent.

I blinked. I was still standing in the kitchen. I didn’t remember walking there. I didn’t remember putting my hands on the back of the chair. I didn’t remember biting the inside of my cheek until blood filled my mouth.

I only remembered my mother’s shoes. One of them was still in the hallway. The other was gone. I walked toward the bedroom. The floor stretched too long under my feet. Every step felt like stepping through water. The walls breathed around me. The ceiling bent lower.

Don’t go in there, sweet Milo.

Her voice was in my head. Or maybe from the room. Or maybe from the walls.

I went anyway.

My mother was on the floor beside the bed. Her blue dress was twisted around her legs. One strap had slipped down her shoulder. Her hair covered half her face. Her neck looked wrong. There were red streaks of blood painted over her skin. I saw one of her eyes. It was swollen and open, staring blankly at me.

My father stood over her, chest heaving, hands red, eyes empty. For a second, I thought he looked sad. Then he wiped his hands on her dress.

“She made me do it,” he said.

Something inside me went very still.

“She was sick,” he said, like he was explaining a mess. “She would have gotten herself killed out there. She would have gotten you taken away. I did what I had to do. She was going to leave for good, and that wasn’t allowed.”

I looked at my mother. She was quiet now. She had finally stopped shaking. Stopped crying. Stopped whispering to corners. Stopped singing sad songs when she thought no one could hear.

He had fixed her. That was what he would say. He had fixed her the only way men like him knew how to fix anything.

I laughed. It came out small and ugly.

My father turned his head. “What?”

I laughed again. I couldn’t stop.

It tore up my throat and spilled out of me. My mother was dead on the floor and I was laughing because if I didn’t, I was going to open my mouth and scream until the whole house split in half.

His face darkened. “Don’t you fucking laugh at me.”

I looked at him. For the first time, I looked at him and didn’t feel like a boy. I didn’t feel like anything.

He took a step toward me. The room blinked. Then I wasn’t there. Not really. I was above myself, floating near the ceiling, watching a boy with my face stand in the doorway. Watching my father move. Watching my mother lie still.

The boy’s eyes were black. His mouth was open, but nothing came out.

My father said something. The boy didn’t answer. The house started humming.

Fly away, sweet Milo.

I blinked. I was in the hallway. I blinked again. I was in the kitchen. There was smoke. Not a lot at first. Just a thin gray ribbon curling along the ceiling like a ghost dragging its fingers through the air.

I stared at it. Where did that come from? My hands smelled wrong. Burnt and bitter.

I looked down. There was soot on my fingers. Black smears under my nails. A red mark across my palm where something hot had kissed skin.

I didn’t remember. My heart started beating too fast.

My father shouted from the bedroom. “Milo!”