“Shut up,” he hisses.
I won’t stop trying to reel him in. It’s the only way to get close enough to grab his gun.
“You hate it when you’re confronted with your own skin,” I muse, narrowing my eyes at him. “Well, guess what? You deserve it after ruining my life.”
“I didn’t do shit,” he hisses right up in my face.
He’s so close now I can feel his breath on my skin, but I don’t let it distract me.
We both know he’s far from innocent.
He crushed my soul, destroyed me, and left me in pieces to deal with it alone.
That’s his sin to carry.
A sin I’ll never forgive him for.
*
Brandon
Past
November 9th
You don’t really know your uncle until you’re cooped up in a van with three other men you don’t even recognize. He called them and then picked them up somewhere far outta town. Now we’re on the way back to Springhaven.
I don’t know who they are or what we’re gonna do.
I knew my uncle was rich, but it still amazes me. After all this time, I still feel as though I don’t know him that well.
My uncle is an enigma. Someone powerful … someone I don’t know if I can trust.
But right now, I have no other choice. Family sticks together, no matter what.
I clutch the pendant my papa once gave me and hold it close to my heart.
I feel on edge. Unhinged. As if my life is happening on the big screen and I’m watching it from a seat in the theater. Minus the popcorn, but with all the salt in the world.
The men beside me occasionally glare at me, and I glare back equally hard. I wonder how my uncle knows them, and why they’re coming along. Do they work for him?
And what the fuck are they planning to do?
One of the men starts playing with a knife, twirling it swiftly in his hands as if he’s got nothing better to do. The one beside me doesn’t even seem fazed as he casually drinks from his water bottle.
Who are these guys?
There’s only one thing all of us have in common, and that’s the long black hair.
Native Americans.
Did my uncle drum them up from the reserve?
Before I can ask my uncle any of these questions, he says, “We’re here.”
The men immediately grab gloves and ski masks and put them on. My stomach churns.
The doors of the van open, and I’m pulled out by my uncle. We’re right in front of the Burrell’s gate.
The sky is pitch black with nothing but the stars illuminating our way. One of the men brought bolt cutters and breaks open the gate. My uncle pulls me aside and hands me a pair of gloves. “Put these on, boy. You don’t wanna leave any trace, remember?”
I’m surprised he thought of this. He’s thought of everything. It’s almost as if he’s done this before. Or maybe he just knows how shit like this goes. He always seems prepared for the world to go down. Tonight is no different.
My uncle ushers us onto the property, but he remains at the gate. He hisses, “Go! I’ll stay here and make sure the van is ready.”
For what, I wonder.
A quick getaway? Maybe … or maybe he chickened out.
Whatever. I’m not gonna sit and wait for the others to do the job. I need to know why the twins did what they did. And they should pay with a rough beating at least.
I’m pretty sure my uncle hired these three men to take care of that so he doesn’t have to do the dirty work himself. He’s just letting me tag along with them for the ride.
The men go ahead, and I follow them, sneaking onto the property. One of them turns on a flashlight and peers through the windows, looking for movement. There are no lights on inside, and no one appears to be awake. Good.
One of the men pulls out a small tool and pries the door open in no time. We go inside and up the stairs. Mr. Burrell is snoring loud, so we head in the opposite direction. On the doors are nameplates and one of them reads Dixie. My throat instantly feels dry.
I try to ignore the uneasiness bubbling to the surface and focus on the task at hand.
When we’ve found the door that says Ben & Danny, we come to a stop. One of the men gently pushes open the door, and we all go inside quietly. The two boys lie on their beds, snoring loudly.
Just seeing them sleep like babies makes my blood boil. They should be crying in a pool of their own blood. I can’t wait to beat their asses.
I won’t be gentle, but I won’t be cruel either. I’m not like them.
With clenched fists, I march toward Danny and stand in front of his bed, waiting for him to open his eyes and see what he’s done when he stares back at me. I want him to see the pain, the suffering, the humiliation. I want him to experience the same.
I almost contemplate hurting his dad instead.
But one of the men steps forward and grabs my shoulder, pulling me away from the bed.
He pulls out a knife … that same knife he was twirling in the van … and rams it straight into Danny’s heart.
My eyes widen, and I fall back onto the floor. “What the f—”
“Shut it,” one of the other men hisses at me, placing his finger on his lips.
Danny releases a muffled growl, the sound of a person in need. The sound of a person who’s dying.
The man with the knife keeps jabbing him, over and over again. Blood spills everywhere, staining the bed.
It drips down onto the floor and makes me crawl away.
I bump straight into Ben’s bed.
One of the men immediately lifts me to my feet and pushes a knife into my hand. Our eyes meet. His are empty, void of any emotions while mine probably drown in them.
Still, he nudges me toward Ben.
I hold the knife in front of me as though it’s a weapon, a sword to slay my enemies.
But this is no game, and I’m no fucking prince on a horse saving the damsel in distress.
I’m hurt. Wounded. Scarred for life.
They deserve this.
At least, that’s the mantra I repeat in my head, but I can’t bring myself to actually hurt him.
What am I doing?
I wanted them to pay.
Desperately.