When the Heart Falls

A few people gasp at the angry words my father is spewing. Some look at me in sympathy, others shuffle uncomfortably as they look to the pastor for guidance on how to handle this inappropriate turn of events. All of this is happening in a bubble outside of me. Inside, I’m seething with rage as Dad takes dig after dig at me, while my brother lays in the ground, dead.

I stand and face my dad, who falls silent as I glare at him. “You want to control everyone in your life so much that you crush us all," I say. "I didn’t kill Stevie, I left to live my own life. That’s what children are supposed to do when they become adults. But you’re not okay with that, are you? You can’t bear to have any children who have minds and lives of their own. That’s why you hated Pete, because he lived his own life, because it didn’t mesh with your idea of what he should be. Pete killed himself because of you, Father. He was gay and you hated him for it, made his life so miserable, such hell, that death was better than living as your son. I can understand why you’re grieving for Stevie. It must have been such a relief when you crashed that car and destroyed the body of your youngest son, because then he’d never grow up and live his own life. He’d be your baby forever, bound to you no matter what. What a shame you lost the only son you ever loved because he couldn’t do a damn thing for himself and so would never leave. You must be so disappointed.”

Dad’s eyes burn with rage. People are holding their breath to see what happens next. Dad walks up to me, fist clenched. “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

The pastor rises, trying to calm us both, but it’s too late. I step forward, my own fists ready for a fight. “Go ahead, Dad. I’m not a kid anymore. You want to hit me because I won’t become your carbon copy? Do it. You’ve followed Grandpa’s footsteps this far in life, might as well take it full circle.”

That deflates him, and instead of hitting me he turns on his heels and storms off into the cemetery.

I sink to my knees, tears falling from my eyes. “I’m sorry Stevie. I’m sorry you ever had to be born into our fucked up family.”





CADE SAVAGE





CHAPTER 32





THE SETTING SUN warms my back as a gentle wind takes the sting of heat away. Biscuit whinnies at me and leans her head down to scoop up a sugar square from my hand. She’s the only one I can stand to be around right now, after the most miserable excuse for a funeral I can imagine. My hand shakes as her soft lips brush it for another treat.

“What’s bothering you, kid?” My dad’s voice haunts my memories, asking me the same question over and over. This time I know the answer.

You, Father. You’ve been the problem all along. I smirk, but the temporary satisfaction deflates into knots in my stomach.

I pat Biscuit’s nose and sit down on a log by her stable. The letter is burning a hole in my pocket, so I pull it out and stare at it. Goodbye is written on the front in Pete’s messy scrawl. I slide my hand over it, trying to feel his essence through the blotches of ink. I don't care what you say. I killed you. I didn't tell Dad to stop tormenting you. And so I killed you.

I clutch the letter, twisting it. I want to rip it up, destroy it and never think about it again.

“I knew I’d find you here. Everyone’s asking about you.”

I look up at the voice. Leslie, wearing a dark sundress that’s too short to be proper for the memorial at this house, leans against the fence.

I shrug. “Let them ask.”

“What do you have there?”

The paper feels thin, insubstantial in my hands. "It's a letter.”

Leslie sits next to me on the log, but doesn’t touch me, for which I’m grateful. My thoughts spiral to Winter, and I wonder if some guy is cozying up to her right now. The thought makes my fists curl around the paper in my hand.

"Who's it from?" Leslie pulls me out of my dangerous thoughts.

And plunges me back into even more dangerous thoughts. "My brother.”

She frowns. Great. Soon she’ll say she’s so sorry about Stevie, just like everyone else. Sorry, sorry, sorry, as if the word makes things better.

But she surprises me by nudging my shoulder. "Then open it, you dolt."

My body turns rigid. "I can't."

She reaches for the letter. "I can open it for you."

I yank it away and stand to put distance between us. "It's personal."

She rolls her eyes. "I won't read it."

I stare at the paper. "But I might.”

"What’re you so afraid of?"

I stare out at the fields where the cows are grazing. "That I might be wrong."

"About what?"

"About something I did.”

She’s relentless in her questions. "What'd you do?"

"Something horrible."

Leslie scrunches up her face, like she's confused. "And this letter might prove you didn't do that something horrible?"

I shrug. "It might."

"Then read it already."

My heart skips a beat. "No.”

"Doesn't it hurt? Blaming yourself?"

"I deserve the pain.” It’s my penance for my sins. What was it the pastor said once about sins? That there are sins of commission, where we actively do something bad, and sins of omission, where we sin by not doing something we should. I am guilty of the sin of omission. Every time I let our dad abuse Pete I committed that sin.