Jeremy watched a tiny trail of blood slither out from among the strands of his father’s greasy hair. He dropped the bat and fell to his knees.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried, unable to stopper the tears. They gushed down his cheeks, mixing with blood—an Impressionism painting of swirling terror and grief.
His father said nothing.
“I need you to please leave me alone,” Jeremy went on, reaching out to touch his father’s shoulder.
No movement.
“I’ll . . . I’ll give you the guns. Just please don’t come here anymore,” Jeremy said.
Nothing.
“Dad?” He shook his shoulder gently.
The hallway was quiet and still.
“Dad? Get up and leave,” Jeremy demanded.
His fingers automatically moved to his father’s throat. No pulse.
“Jesus,” Jeremy breathed, grunting and straining as he worked to roll his father over.
He gasped and reared back, unprepared for his father’s blank eyes staring back at him.
“Dad?”
He didn’t know how to perform CPR. He wasn’t sure it mattered now. What mattered was hiding those guns before he called the police. He’d have to call the police. He’d have to admit to killing his father.
“It was self-defense,” he said, panicked. “Self-defense!”
He rushed to the bedroom and retrieved the guns, ignoring his body’s angry protests. He knew his ribs were cracked. He knew he had gaping wounds that required medical treatment. Wasn’t important now.
He quietly stole down the stairs to Roy’s garage and carefully unlocked the back door. No movement. No one around. He walked to the cabinet that housed his precious paraphernalia and tucked the guns in the back, wrapped securely and out of sight. He locked the cabinet, locked the garage door, and ascended the stairs once more to the crime scene.
“Self-defense,” he said again, when he looked down at his father.
“You gotta work harder to defend your army, Jer,” Mr. Stahl said, lounging on the couch with his son, game controller in hand.
“I’m trying! But your army keeps getting bigger,” Jeremy replied. “How are you doing that?”
“You’ve gotta conquer lands, son,” his dad replied. “They’ll fight for you over dying.”
“You keep beating me to it,” Jeremy argued.
“’Cause I’m faster and stronger,” his dad said. “You will be, too, as long as you keep practicing. Hell, you’ll beat me one day.”
“I stink at this game,” Jeremy huffed, tossing his controller.
“Hey, with that attitude, you’ll never get better. Don’t give up. Never give up on anything,” his dad said.
“It’s just a stupid game,” Jeremy muttered.
“Listen, you master this, and then you move on to something else. And then you master that, and you move on to something else. All these things help you get better,” Mr. Stahl said, tousling his son’s hair.
Jeremy grunted.
“Come on, let me see you defend the front gate. Where are you gonna put your men?” Mr. Stahl said, handing Jeremy his controller.
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Stahl sighed patiently. “All right, son. Lemme teach you how to fight.”
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
Jeremy swallowed the sob. “I . . . I killed my dad . . .”
***
Just when he was slipping back into the shadows as his relationship with Regan became yesterday’s news, the horrific death of his father thrust him into the limelight once more. Not even a three-week absence from school could save him. Once he returned—something he was loathe to do—everyone turned their attention on him—the killer. Many students were visibly scared of him. He should have reveled in their fear.
He didn’t.
“You did nothing wrong,” Regan assured him as they walked the halls.
Students parted like the Red Sea, flattening themselves against the lockers and turning their faces, afraid to look at him. Afraid he would take a baseball bat to them if they made eye contact.
He said nothing, and when she tried to lace her fingers with his, he pulled away.
He avoided Regan as much as possible in the three weeks following the incident. There was the investigation, which didn’t take long because the case was open and shut. Clear self-defense. Even now, Jeremy sported a plethora of stitches, fading bruises, and scratch marks from the altercation—another reason he refrained from going back to school earlier. He looked like a victim, and that made him vulnerable.
Regan’s work schedule helped. It kept her at a distance, and he let most of her calls go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk through his feelings about his dad, and he knew that’s what she wanted. Girls think communicating feelings promotes healing. They have no idea how a man’s mind works. He didn’t need words. He needed alone time. He needed the slopes, his snowboard, and Bad Religion.
Of course, Roy and Regan’s parents didn’t understand this either. Roy hovered all over him, knocking on the apartment door every five minutes to check in. He didn’t want Jeremy to live there anymore. He thought it would mess with his head. Regan’s mom just wanted to keep stuffing him full of home-cooked meals—trap him in a perpetual food daze so he wouldn’t think about his dad. He became her surrogate son whether he liked it or not.
He was suffocating under everyone’s sympathy.
“I’m a patient girl,” he heard Regan say, like she was testing him.
He bristled. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just don’t wanna hold hands.”
She sighed. “I understand.”
“Look at the way these people are staring at me,” he said. “Like I’m the bad guy.” He snorted and shook his head.
“Who cares what they think?”
“I mean, my dad attacks me. Almost kills me. I defend myself, and I’m in the wrong?”
“You’re not in the wrong, Jer. They’re just scared. We don’t exactly have a lot of students in this school who’ve taken someone’s life. You’re a . . . novelty.”
They turned the corner.
“Did you really just call me that?” he asked.
“I don’t mean it to sound flippant. But it’s true.”
“You make me sound like a sideshow freak,” he replied, automatically touching his scar.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Stop,” she said softly.