He knew about this. He’s known all of these years and he didn’t tell me. He allowed me to suppress the memories. He had to know what it would do to me.
But everything makes sense now. No wonder he had stayed at work for such long hours after mom died. He didn’t want to see me. How in the world could he have looked into my face knowing that I had killed his wife? Or even if he didn’t realize the part I played, at the very least he knows that I didn’t save her.
But even still. I was a kid. My logical thought tells me that Mila is right. It wasn’t my fault. But I was the one who was there. It was my hand that bumped the man’s gun. And it was my father who allowed me to hide it all of these years.
I punch his number into my house phone, but of course, he doesn’t pick up. I leave him a voice mail.
“I know what happened to mom,” I say icily. “Call me.”
I hang up and throw my phone against the wall. It shatters into pieces. I guess if he wants to call, he’ll have to call my cell.
Self-loathe floods through me, swirling with the anger that I feel toward my father. All of a sudden, I am consumed with so much emotion that I don’t know what to do with it all. It’s overwhelming. And it fucking hurts.
I head to the kitchen and grab a bottle of whiskey. I glance into the cabinet and see that I have two more. Thank god I re-stocked the other day. I gulp a few drinks, then a few more. Thankfully, the familiar haze soon descends upon me, the quiet numbness that I enjoy so much. But it’s not enough.
The ache is still there.
Fuck. This.
I take the stairs two at a time and change into sweats, a sweatshirt and running shoes. Without another thought, I dart out the back of the house, jogging down the path to the beach. The sand is packed and frozen into hard ripples that hurt the bottom of my feet.
I don’t care. I deserve it.
I jog at a fast clip, sucking in the cold air that burns my lungs.
I don’t care. I deserve it.
The lake swirls and crashes against the shore on my right as my feet beat angrily on the rigid beach. The wind blowing from the water is frigid and wet and I suck it in, inhaling it into numb body. Flecks of the icy water hit my face and drip onto my shirt, freezing there.
I stare into the distance, not noticing as the beach falls away under my feet. I don’t even know how far I go, until at last I can no longer breathe. My fucking lungs hurt so much and there is still a fucking lump in my throat, lodged so tightly that no amount of swallowing or running or heavy breathing will move it.
“Fuuuuccckkkkk!”
I turn and shout at the lake, screaming as loud as I can. The vibration of it rips against my vocal chords, bruising them in the cold.
But I don’t care. I fucking deserve it. I shout again and again, until my voice grows hoarse. And then I drop onto the beach, leaning against a big piece of driftwood. I am limp and spent. My forehead is somehow sweaty, even though it is cold outside. The cold wind blows against it, giving me chills.
But I don’t care.
I fucking deserve it.
I deserve to get pneumonia and die out here in the cold.
I stare blankly at the lake now, trying to tune out rational thought or logic or memories or emotion. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here or how much time passes before I see someone making their way down the beach. I see a flash of red and a long coat.
Mila.
I can just barely see the neck of her red turtleneck sweater poking out of her heavy coat. She trudges along the beach, her slim form bent against the wind. I can tell when she sees me because her pace quickens and it only takes her a minute more to reach me.
“Pax,” she shouts. “Oh my god. Thank god. What are you thinking? It’s cold out here. You’re going to get pneumonia.”
I stare up at her. It’s the weirdest feeling, but I simply don’t care about anything. I don’t care if I catch pneumonia. It wouldn’t bother me at all.
She leans down and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet.
“Come on,” she tells me. “We’re going back to the house. You don’t even have a coat on.”
And I don’t care. But I don’t tell Mila that. I just let her lead me to the house, up the stairs and into the kitchen.
“You’re frozen,” she says, turning to me. Her face is stricken as she strips off her coat and tosses it onto a chair. “I’m going to run you a hot bath. You have to warm up.”
She disappears down the hall and I remain standing limply in place.
Nothing matters.
Not anymore.
I know now what the void was that was always in me. It was this. This horrible knowledge. Even though my mind was concealing it, deep down in a hidden place, I knew. It’s why I’ve always felt empty, why I always welcomed oblivion.
Only now, the void isn’t empty. It’s filled with overwhelming pain and guilt. And I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like I’m being pulled under.