“Move,” he yelled.
Blow out the candles, Junior. I heard a voice boom through the speakers of the television.
Jack’s voice.
Come on, baby. You can do it! Lacey help your little brother. I heard Jack continue on the television.
In a blink of an eye the barrel of the gun moved from his temple and toward me.
“I. Said. Move,” he shouted, eyes wild as his finger wrapped around the trigger of the gun.
“No,” I whispered, my heart pounding in my chest as I stared at him. “Give me the gun, Jack.”
He was on his feet in a flash and I subconsciously took a retreating step backward as he closed the distance between us and placed the gun to my temple.
“You think I won’t shoot you? I said move the fuck out of the way,” he roared.
I blinked rapidly forcing myself to stay calm, fighting back the tears that threatened and lifted my hand to his cheek.
“Let me help you,” I pleaded.
“You going to bring that boy back from the dead?” He questioned, pointing the gun toward the screen behind me, his eyes softening as he stared over my shoulder at his son. “You can’t help me, only he can,” he ground out, his gun falling to his side as he stepped around me and moved to the television, his trembling fingers reaching out to touch the screen.
I wiped at my cheeks as I watched him cock his head to the side, staring at the screen as it went black.
Video over.
His head bowed in defeat, his grip tightened on the gun as he wept.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said adamantly, walking to stand beside him. “Tell me about your boy, Jack, introduce me to him, share him with me,” I pleaded, bending my knees to peer up at him.
He stared at me blankly and I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I reach for him or let him be, push him or give him a minute?
“Did you and his mother know he would be a boy or was it a surprise?”
“We knew,” he whispered.
I smiled a little, reaching out to touch his hand.
“I bet you were so excited,” I said, interlocking our fingers and squeezing his hand.
Stay with me.
“Was he a good sleeper?” I continued.
“He was perfect. Everything he did was just perfect,” he recalled, his eyes dropping to our hands.
It’s okay to be broken.
“What was his first word?” I asked, reaching for the gun with my free hand.
“Dada,” he whispered, closing his eyes as my hand closed around the barrel of the gun.
“He would’ve been fifteen today,” he said, exhaustion in his eyes as he lifted them to mine. “Missed thirteen birthday cakes, never got to blow the candles out on his own,” he continued. “Not fair, Reina. It’s not fucking fair,” he cried. “I’ve cheated death a thousand times and I don’t understand why he couldn’t.”
“No it’s not,” I agreed, as he glanced down at the gun we were both holding now. I dropped his hand from mine and lifted his chin so his eyes found mine. “Do you believe in God, Jack?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“I do,” I whispered, as I shrugged my shoulders. “Sometimes,” I corrected. “Times like this I believe in God,” I continued. “God is watching over your son, Jack. He’s saved him from all the ugly things we see every day. I know you don’t want to hear it and my words won’t mend your broken heart, but Jack is safe. He’s happy, and he’s free, free to look in on his family, free to explore without injuring himself. He can do whatever he wants. He’s invincible. He’s the superhero little boys dream of being,” I said, brushing away his tears with my free hand. “I bet he loves checking in on his dad, and when he sees his favorite superhero of all I bet he smiles as wide as he can.”
“I’m nobody’s hero, Reina,” he muttered.
“That’s not true. I’ve seen the way your daughter looks at you, Jack, you’re everything to her—the man she will measure every other. And you are your son’s hero, believe that, trust it, because that little boy wants you to know that surviving the things you had no control over is what badass superheroes are made of,” I said, watching his eyes glisten and tears trickle out the corners. I took a deep breath as I stared into his eyes. “You’re my hero,” I whispered. “You’ve rescued me from my own hell without even trying.”
His eyes peered into mine and for a moment I saw the struggle reflected in them, the fight against doubt raging with admitting to the truth. His fingers loosened around the gun and I took the opportunity to ease it away from him. He let the gun fall into my palm, pulled his hands back before lifting them to his face.
This beautiful man, tortured, tormented and exhausted by his guilt and the scars marking his soul resigned from his madness. I gently placed the gun on the dresser and turned back to him, his head in his hands.