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“We already are ruined.” He laughs humorlessly. “Look at us, Colton!”
“And if Dad finds out the truth, he’ll probably kill us in anger.”
Cole goes silent at my words. Only he and I know what our father is truly capable of.
He is a murderer.
He killed our mother.
Violently pushed her down the stairs, and then cried over her dead body as if he didn’t just kill her himself. Cole and I saw. We heard it when her neck snapped.
I still remember that day as if it was yesterday. I can still hear their arguing, echoing in my ears, her screaming at my father for being a “heartless bastard” and him calling her a “cheating whore.”
And I can still hear his fake crying as the cops stormed in. How he manipulated them and how they believed his lies when he told them she slipped down the stairs.
That day, he hissed in our faces, practically spitting in fury as he told us to stay quiet, to not say anything to the cops or we would end up just like our mother.
So a terrified eight-year-old Cole and Colton obeyed.
Many times I’ve wanted to tell the truth. I remember the kind eyes of the officer as he asked me questions, and I wanted to tell him. The words were right on my lips…but I just couldn’t.
I kept my mouth shut and allowed my father to get away with his lies.
And in doing so, Cole and I became his unwilling victims.
He is a heartless bastard, just like our mother called him.
But she paid the ultimate price and left us behind. In the lair of the devil. For him to use as his pawns. We were an outlet for his hatred and frustration.
Cole and I are simply puppets to our father.
“You remember what he did to Mom,” I remind my brother. “We know what he’s capable of.”
Cole runs his fingers through his shaggy hair. “Sometimes I wonder if it’d be better off if we were dead. If we had died along with Mom. Maybe death would have been a better ending for us.”
I snap up and clasp my brother by his shoulders, shaking him. “Don’t you ever dare say that again!” I say, choking on my words. “I need you alive, Cole. We survive, that’s what we do.”
“But I can’t watch you take a beating for me. I won’t. I can’t.”
“You’ve done it for me before. Many times.” I try to smile, in a way that will calm my brother. But I can’t even fake it for him. My smile shakes and he sees it. “When I was sneaking out and you’d take the fall for me. You’ve always protected me from our father’s wrath because you knew he’d go easier on you than me.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not the same. He wasn’t this cruel before.”
“Cole,” I say, my hand still on his shoulder. He lifts his eyes to mine, and it’s like I’m staring into the mirror. He’s a reflection of myself. “You’ve always played the role of the good brother. But don’t forget, I’m older than you by four minutes. Let me do the protecting this time. Let me be the older brother you need. I got this and I got you.”
Cole is quiet for a long minute, before he reluctantly nods. He chews on his lip, and then gestures to my bruised, welted back. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
He laughs quietly. “Liar.”
I smile, before admitting the truth. “It hurts like hell.”
But we survive — because that’s what we do.
We will always survive.
I can still hear Cole and Josie’s cries echoing in my ears. Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever forget those horrified and haunted screams as the car drove into us. Or maybe we drove into the other car.
