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It would have killed me.
We loved our dad. He’d had his troubles, but we loved him. Love was never a question, but this, what was happening now, didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be alive. He shouldn’t be doing this… whatever he was doing.
The man shook his head incessantly as if he was trying to shake something out of it. Ignoring me, Dad continued to pour gas, and I gasped.
“Dad,” I forced out, my mouth so dry and my body achy. I had no idea how long I’d been out and tied to this chair, but pangs in my limbs told me it’d been awhile. “Dad, what are you doing? Why are you here? What happened—”
He shushed me like a child, but it wasn’t a normal shush. His finger shook against his mouth, a vacancy behind his eyes.
“I have to. I have to,” he whispered, the words chillingly low. Severing eye contact, he poured more gas. “I need to.”
“Dad—” I cried out as he lifted the can and spilled the last of the gas on my jeans, my shoes. The smell violated my lungs, and I shifted in my chair. “Dad, stop.”
“No. No. Can’t stop.” He sounded unhinged, crazy. “I can’t stop. It must be done. It has to be done.”
“Daddy.” I hadn’t called him that since I’d been a child, my eyes watering. “Daddy, please stop this.”
He faced me then, really looked at me.
He looked so sad.
A visible pain rimmed his eyes. Like it hurt just to look at me.
He touched my face then, and where I should have pulled away, I didn’t. There was so much care there in his touch, his thumb gentle when it brushed my cheek.
“I did love you.” His lips pinching together, he gazed away. “I did, and she did too. Always did. Your mother.”
The tears rolled down my face now. Why was he telling me this?
His teeth clamped down on his lip, his hand squeezing his eyes. “I have to, Sloane.”
“You don’t have to,” I gasped, blinking down more tears. “Whatever you’re doing, you don’t have to do.”
He poured gas around me, on me, and people only typically used gas for one reason. My father was starting a fire.
And I was at the center.
Swallowing, I gazed around to find many tanks, ones with warning signs all over them. Some of them said flammable and other horribly chilly words. None of this meant anything good for me.
Dad left me then, continuing to pour a line from my seat to those very cans. After he finished, he tossed the can, then came back. He hunkered down.
“I have no choice,” he said, hanging his head. “I have to protect your brother.”
What?
“I did love you,” he repeated, nodding. He got up. “Every time I said it, I meant it. I did, and it hurt every time.”
But why would it hurt?
Dad’s throat jumped. “She was right. Everything your mother said was right.” His hands braced his arms. “I tried to honor her. I did, but it was too late. I was too late, Sloane…”
“Too late?” The words trembled from my lips, my dad blurry. I could barely see him behind my tears.
He cringed, as if seeing them there hurt him too. His mouth parted. “To save you, sweet girl.”
He lifted a match in front of me, and my eyes expanded. I thought he’d throw the flame at me, but he drew back and tossed it behind the barrels.
The flames were immediate, massive. He must have poured gas there too, and I watched in horror as the flames ate the factory’s machinery. They hadn’t caught up to the barrels yet, and when I looked away, I found my father’s eyes, his sight on me.
