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Tears stream down my face as I swallow down the sickness burning my throat, and crawl towards the man who killed my mother. Overwhelming guilt lacerates my heart as much as I’ve lacerated his skin. “What have I done?” I pant, my chest tightening. I can barely breathe.
He doesn’t move when I lean over him. He doesn’t flinch when my fingers reach for his back, tentatively pressing against his bruised and split skin. He remains still as I brush the hair off his forehead.
“I wanted you dead, and now…” I choke on my tears.
His eyes are unblinking, vacant, as I lay on the cold floor, stretching out beside him. I rest my head as close to his as I can, instantly remembering how he’d done the same when we were children.
“You killed my mother,” I sob, my heart breaking, my vision blurred from all the tears. “You killed my mother and left me to die. How could you?” I reach for his face, pushing back the hair that’s fallen over his forehead, my fingers lingering against his temple. “Look what you made me do. I’m no better than you are.”
He blinks and my heart jumps as I pull my hand back. “I told you not to remember me,” he replies quietly, his voice broken, cracked,raw.
I swipe at my tears, potent relief flooding my veins. “You’re not dead,” I whisper. I shouldn’t feel relieved, but I do. God help me, I do.
“You’re wrong, I’ve been dead inside for a very long time,” he croaks, groaning as he tries to lift his head, a flash of vulnerability streaking across his face.
“Why?” I ask. I want answers. I need to understand. “Why would you kill my mother?”
He groans, wincing as he adjusts his position. “You weren’t supposed to be there. When I heard the screaming…” his voice trails off as he swallows hard.
“You didn’t know?” I whisper, more tears pricking my eyes.
The muscle in Leon’s jaw flexes as his eyes flash with guilt. It’s brief, but undeniable. “My father told me the house was empty. He lied.”
“That was him?”
He nods. “It was a test… I failed.”
“Because I lived?”
“Because Isavedyou.”
A tiny voice in my head tries to tell me that he’s the one lying now, that this is another trick, another manipulation, but somehow I know it isn’t. This may be the only truth he tells me, but itisthe truth.
“Fuck,” he groans, blood seeping from the tears in his skin.
“What have I done?” I whisper, the adrenaline that had kept me single-mindedly focused on killing him leaves my body. My teeth chatter and my hands begin to shake as nausea rolls in my stomach once again.
“You took your revenge,” he mutters. “I deserved that much at least.”
“I should get Thirteen…” I mumble, trying to unravel my feelings. It had felt good to hurt him, to punish him for what he did to my mother, to me. But now that I know it wasn’t intentional, that he was a child manipulated by an evil man, it feels different. Wrong on so many levels. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He frowns. “You are?”
“Yes,” I say, meaning it.
“You shouldn’t be.”
Reaching for him, I run my shaking fingers over his cheek. He flinches under my touch, as though kindness, remorse,empathyhurts him. Perhaps it does.
“Why did you save me? Why didn’t you let me die?” I whisper, locking gazes with him.
He’s quiet for a long time, then finally he says, “I don’t know…Instinct?”
“Your instinct was to save me?”
“Yes. I heard you screaming and I couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t?”
