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Your parents are outside.
They’re waiting for you.
They’ll talk to you about your brother.
They didn’t have to tell me that Kenny was dead.
I had seen his crumpled, bloody body inside the car before I passed out.
I put on my jeans and boots and the scrub shirt.
It hurt a little to walk, but I was okay.
I walked down a long sterile hallway.
My parents were in the waiting room.
My mother was sitting in a chair with a handkerchief to her nose. When I walked in she didn’t even look up. I knew what she was thinking. Why him? Why did I live and why did Kenny die? Why couldn’t I been the one? I was thinking the same thing myself.
My father saw me coming.
He got up from the chair and stood watching me with his shoulders hunched and his thick arms at his side and his hands balled into tight fists. His face was red. His eyes were red. He had been crying. I had never seen my father cry. I didn’t know he even had the ability to cry.
As I got closer, I could see his face contorting into a mask of rage and hate. He looked like a mad bull about to charge. I knew what was about to happen. I didn’t care. I put my hands in my pockets to keep them out of his way and headed straight toward him. An easy target. One he knew well.
This time I couldn’t blame him for wanting to beat the hell out of me.
I had killed his beloved son.
I hoped he would take the opportunity to do the same to me.
“You…” That’s all he said. You…
I stopped a few feet from him. I could feel the heat of his anger washing over my face like a harsh wind blowing through a bonfire. I stuck out my chin and closed my eyes. It was the first time I had ever welcomed a beating from him. I wanted him to hit me. I wanted him to beat me to a pulp. I wanted to feel the pain of his fists on my face and his boot in my ribs. I held my breath and waited.
Then… nothing.
I slowly opened my eyes and stared at him. He was still there, eyes red, nostrils flaring, fists balled, the veins at his temples throbbing.
“Well?” I aske
d.
“You…” he said again. “You killed my boy…”
I frowned at him. I glanced down at my mother, who had buried her face in the kerchief. She was rocking back and forth like an autistic child.
“Yes,” I said, my eyes locking with his. “I killed Kenny.”
“You…” His eyes overflowed with tears and he shook his head. “Goddamn you…”
“Yes, goddamn me,” I said quietly. “Now, hit me.”
His forehead cut into deep lines. He frowned at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. His fists stayed at his side. Tears ran down his cheeks. Snot streamed from his nose and over his lip. He growled at me. “What did you say?”
“I said hit me, you son of a bitch. Hit me like you always do.”
I had never seen my father look confused before. He blinked quickly and shook his head. “You just need to go. Don’t come home. Don’t ever come home again.”
