Page 3 of Make You Beg

“You’re not going to say anything. You hear me?” He grabs me by the collar of my jersey once we’re by the car. “Keep your mouth shut. I have no fucking idea what happened, and you don’t know anything, either.” He’s moved his hand to my shoulder, digging his fingers in and putting pressure on my bones. “So, I’ll do the talking. Now, get in the car.”

I fill in the rest of the conversation in my head. The pain lingering on my shoulder blades from his fingers making me numb. No son of mine will get in trouble with the police for a fucking lame lie. Lying is for the weak, not real men. We don’t lie. We know how to twist the truth to our advantage. How to change the narrative to suit us.

He’d probably say something like that. Bullshit.

We’re not con men. Monsters? That’s a different story.

“What are you looking so shocked about?”

I don’t notice I’m disassociating, looking into oblivion until he says so.

“Don’t tell me you have PTSD or some shit like that now.” He snaps his fingers in my face, yanking the passenger door open. “Get the fuck in.”

The worst part isn’t that he talks to me like I’m the filthiest garbage in the whole damn world, no. It’s the fact that his other son just got sent to the morgue in a body bag, and he didn’t even blink an eye. He thanked the officer for his condolences and asked no questions. Diverted the topic. He doesn’t give a damn.

Like with Mom.

My father may not have killed my brother, but he might as well have.

And I can’t say that I’m surprised I’m as fucked up as he is.

***

As soon as I’m cleared of all suspicion the next day, my father arranges for us to move away to another town. There are no memorial services, no apologies, no goodbyes. No one else asks us anything. There’s no therapy for me, no discussions, no mourning. Not a fucking single ‘are you okay?’

Not in our family.

There was one talk telling me not to mention my brother or the incident at all. To forget it and move on.

If he catches me crying, it won’t end well. Good thing I’m all out of tears. I have been for years. Living under the same roof as him, used to having everything I do turned against me. The disappointment of the family, the disgrace.

You’re going to listen to me, he says to me. We’re going to be great.

That’s what my father always does. We’re always running away from our problems as if wherever we go, they won’t follow.

I wish it was as simple as that.

I wish I had some of whatever he’s having, so I could turn it all off—the thoughts, the guilt, the pain, the anger. The emotions swimming through my veins.

It was the same with Mom. Except we did have a funeral for her, a very small one. And then, we went away. We left our school, our friends, and the neighbors we grew up with.

We moved away a few more times throughout middle school. Whenever something didn’t go my father’s way, or he didn’t like someone or something in the town. Not giving a shit who got hurt along the way.

I’m shocked we lasted this long in Wildhope. Three years is a long time for someone like my dad. In the six years since we’ve lost Mom, we’ve moved not shy of ten times.

It’s no wonder I’ve never felt at home anywhere I go.

So, once again, I’m leaving it all behind. I don’t even get to say goodbye to my friends on the hockey team.

Fuck that.

Now, I’m standing in front of our new place. It’s a tall, two-story Victorian with gray brick walls, long glass windows, and a black rooftop. White flowers are perched along the entrance, and a driveway big enough to build another room on it. I walk in with one suitcase that sums up my whole life.

“Pick a room. Welcome to your new life,” my father says.

Thorned Crowne, New Jersey.

Small enough to go under the radar.