He is screaming at me now. “He always stepped in when he could, Blythe. Chris is a fucking saint. He is. He threw himself in the path of brutal bullshit over and over. He set himself up for it.”
Sabin starts to cry, and his emotions tumble out fast. “Always. And I should be grateful for that. I am grateful, but…but I also hate him for that. Now, I am left standing here, all alone, having done nothing to shield him. I did nothing. I did nothing.”
Watching Sabin, of all people, fall to pieces rips apart my entire system. I don’t know how to face him or what he’s saying. To some degree, I’ve had to get used to it with Chris, but Sabin has always convinced me that he tackled and beat his demons, which was a fucking trick that I stupidly allowed myself to fall for.
He went to rehab and got all fixed up. No follow-up needed. Done.
It was easier to believe that he’d somehow magically healed after such a short time.
“Chris did everything, Chris is a fucking saint,” Sabin tells me again. He can’t stress this enough. That is clear.
“Always the martyr.”
“Making the big sacrifices.”
“Hero.”
Sabin’s words from Christmas Day rush through my head.
“Chris has all the glory. He gets to be the strongest, the bravest, the one who stood in the path of danger so that we wouldn’t have to. So, he deserves to be applauded. Really, he does. But I fucking hate him for it, too. I hate how he blocked me from getting to stand up for myself, but more than that…I never got to fight for Chris. After all he did, I couldn’t fucking fight for him? I hate him. I hate him. And I can’t stand that I hate him. How fucked up does that make me, huh? He has scars to show what a prince he is, and I have nearly nothing next to that.”
“Oh God, Sabin.” I take a step forward.
Approaching his agony takes a lot of strength because it’s never easy to walk into someone else’s storm. But I can’t, nor would I ever, abandon him, no matter how destructive it proves to be.
“You have scars, too. Honey, you have scars just like Chris.”
Sabin’s arm flies down, and he grabs the bottle of whiskey. He unscrews the cap, and he flings it away. He looks at me with anger and takes a long drink. “It’s not the same. You know that, Blythe. He took more than his share. He took way more.”
The burning embers near me are hard to block out, and they are wreaking havoc with my thinking.
Fire, burning, flames, smoke, James, glass, blood, death, my family…
I have to shake that off, so I turn my gaze to the dark waters, searching for what to say. I don’t matter right now. Only Sabin does. I’m someone he trusts, so I have a chance to get him to let go of whatever it is that he’s been holding in. I know that something inside him needs to be discharged into the world. The release of what he’s been trying to suppress could save him, and I will not accept anything less than that. Saving Sabin is the only acceptable option. I’m not sure that I can do it, but I will try.
“The paintings we saw the other day,” I prompt. “There was one in particular…the burn Chris got under his arm.”
Sabin flinches, and I keep my eyes glued on him until I understand.
God, I hate having to say this.“That was meant for you, wasn’t it?”
He takes another drink and wipes his mouth. “Yeah. I wanted it. I practicallyaskedfor it. To help…even things out, you know? So, I could be Chris’s partner in all that shit and not someone he had to suffer for.”
He’s breathing hard, sweat forming on his hairline. “I started it, you know? Our father was in his studio, working on that huge painting, devoting and caring for that fucking canvas like he never did for us. He had…he had smears of color everywhere. Palettes and whatever. Brushes bleeding red. And there was this little kiln he kept running in the winter, partially to keep warm in that huge room but also for when he worked with metal. He liked metal a lot. Heat it up and bend it to do what you want. I didn’t think about that risk.”
He stops and faces me. “I didn’t think about that. All I wanted was to badger him. That was all it would take. Say one wrong thing. So, I walked into his studio without permission and told him that his painting sucked. That it was stupid and ugly. I don’t know what else I said. I was fast back then, but I didn’t even try to run because I wanted to get what I’d come for—something that was just for me and not for Chris. But my father only got in one good hit before Chris heard me screaming. I got too scared, and I screamed, Blythe. If I’d just kept my mouth shut—fuck!”
His desperate face wrecks me. Chris has told me a number of hideous stories, but Sabin never has. I’ve never heard one detail from him, and now, I am again watching someone I love explore levels of anguish that I can only imagine.
“Chris got there, and…he was in his shorts, still wet from swimming, and he put himself between our father and me. I can’t remember exactly…Chris started taunting him, saying he was a better target. He’s the one our father really wanted. Then, somehow…” Sabin shakes his head, trying to recall the details.
“Oh. I know. I do know. Chris told me to get out, to run. He pushed me. He literally pushed me out the door and slammed the deadbolt shut. God, I can still hear that sound. I pounded on the door. Really hard until my hands hurt so much. I was screaming and crying because they wouldn’t let me back in. I think I was ten, maybe? Eleven?
“Chris forgot there was a window though. He forgot that I could go to it and watch. So, I did. I watched what was supposed to be mine. He smacked Chris. He slammed Chris’s head on the table. And more. Then, my father, without thinking twice, just took one of the tools he had by the kiln. I don’t know what it was, something metal though. And he stuck it in the kiln, and he made Chris wait. Then, he burned Chris. Right in front of me. After, he rubbed the tool onto the canvas, so it was part of the painting forever. I can…I can still hear Chris.”
Sabin’s deluge of tears and guilt is nearly intolerable to take. There is no possibility that the abuse stories they tell me will ever make me less sick to my stomach, less full of rage that I cannot ever fully release. It is my job, however, to be a source of stability and strength now. I’ve learned that. So, I have to at least try.
“None of this was your fault. Not any of it. Even that day. Your father was a monster, Sabin. What he did to all of you, who he was…it’s unforgivable. But you are just as brave and strong as Chris. You got through it. God knows how, but you did, and you are here. And you are worth everything. Don’t do this to yourself. You got through it. You got through it.” I am pleading with him, but it feels tragically useless.
