Page 39

She finally answers my previous question.

“I can’t do it, Attie. I’m not strong enough. You don’t know everything he put me through. The beatings, the manipulation, the lies. He used me. Abused me. Stole from me. He didn’t take small things, Atticus. He took my life.”

I hate to see her this way. And she’s right, I don’t know. How could I possibly know when she’s never opened up enough to tell me?

“I know it was bad enough. I mean, Jesus, Lyr. The man fucking murdered you. What more do I need to know?”

She narrows her eyes at me and speaks through pursed lips, her voice just above a whisper, “I was pregnant with his baby, Attie. I didn’t know he was my stepbrother; I was an only child growing up. He blamed me when a miscarriage transpired after he pushed me down a set of stairs.”

I can feel the heat in my soul, my rage fueled by hate and ignited by love.

Knowing that I’ve never wanted children of my own doesn’t change the way I feel about this. It’s conflicting though—he took away the chance of my Strawberry Girl being a mother. I know she would have been a great one. I picture her in her little emo outfits, rocking her Chuck’s and accessorizing with bottles and pacifiers and small blankets. There’s something about the thought of her that way—wiping noses and butts and tears, kissing boo-boos and handing out affirmations like candy in front of tall mirrors.

Simultaneously, it makes me happy that Jake lost out on one more manipulation tactic. One more string to tie her to him. One more weapon to use against her. He should have no part in her. He warrants nothing.

Jake doesn’t deserve to live. As more comes into fruition about what he did to my precious girl, the more I want to act. I’m beginning not to care about how she feels about it. I know Lyric wants him to suffer. She wants revenge, but she’s too weak to do it on her own. I can help her.

“I didn’t know. I’m so fucking sorry, Lyr. You don’t have to do this on your own. Let me do it. Help me help you.”

I can do this for her. I want to.

I’ve always been a fixer, but trying to fix everybody and everything didn’t always go my way. In fact, it often didn’t. Being bounced around from family to family and house to house—made me bear witness to all the flaws within these otherwise perfect-on-paper people. One family had a mother who turned out to be quite fond of me. I saw how her husband was with her. He treated her like gold but would creep in the shadows with the hot, young babysitter. She took my kindness for flirtation, and after that, I learned to be wary about the kind of attention I gave women and my willingness to help them—or anyone, for that matter.

“Okay.”

She twirls her index finger in my scruffy auburn beard. “Tell me what to do.”

“No. No telling you what to do. You’re not doing it. I am.” I make the choice for her.

“Dammit, Attie, you don’t get to do that. You’re not my daddy.”

I abruptly reach for her throat and with a firm grip, I pull her to me; my mouth settles next to her multi-pierced ear. “I am your Daddy, Strawberry Girl. And I said… no.”

I release her, and she falls back on her ashy elbows. She not only looks shocked, but she’s visibly pissed. I don’t care. I know what’s best for her, and I’m doing this.

“Why do you feel you need to hurt Jake? Why does it mean so much to you? What do you get out of it?” She yells painfully. Going to pull away from me, I grip her tighter.

She rolls her eyes and I pinch her cheeks, “Stop it. You mean something to me, Lyr.”

Holding her in place, I tell her; “My death was an accident; yours wasn’t. There is no vengeance—no peace. I’m angry! I had a life. I had plans, a future… Ellie. Let me do this for you, and in a weird way, let me do this for me.”

I release her from my grasp as I press a gentle kiss to her perfect, pouty lips.

“It isn’t necessary for you to stay in control. You don’t have to be triggered every time you enter a room with him in it. While you have the option to be entirely uninvolved if you truly don’t wish to participate, you will cooperate—you don’t get to tell me no. You don’t get to keep me from protecting you or from saving you, Lyric. That is my cross to bear.”

She shifts uncomfortably and attempts to pull my hoodie further down her thighs, and I slap at her hands.

“Stop. It.”

I wish she could see what I see and how badly I want that colorful tattooed thigh wrapped around my head.

“You can’t save everyone…” Lyr says softly.

I love her. I don’t know how to tell her I do, but I’ve never really been good with words. Showing someone how much they mean to me through my actions has always been my way.

“You’re right–not everyone–only you.”

If she finds peace and she leaves, I don’t think I’ll find the will to care again.