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“This is your fault. They killed him, and where were you? Where the hell were you? Kissing some fuckin’ girl.” My da threw my arm away and kicked me in the back so I landed on my stomach, inches away from the picture of my brother’s smiling face as he sat on his brand new red bike.
“Tear it up.”
It was stupid to fight the inevitable. He’d make me, and if I fought, he’d make it harder on me.
“Pick it up, Kill,” he ordered. He loved calling me that. Ironic, he said.
I stared at Emmitt’s smiling face, and a tear slipped from my eye and landed on the picture. He’d only been eleven.
I didn’t protect him. I was too busy talking to Keeva Campbell in the science room.
Emmitt. I’m sorry.
“If you don’t do as I say, it will be longer this time. Do you want that? Do you want to hurt your mum like that?”
No. I didn’t. I hated my mum crying all the time. Begging my da to let me out of my room. He never did. He couldn’t stand looking at me. But it had always been that way. He hated me from the day I was born. Emmitt was his only son, according to him. And now he was gone.
Hatred blazed in his eyes as he spat, “It should’ve been you. He had a chance at making it big in football. You took that from him.”
I didn’t care what he said to me anymore. But what I hated the most was the locked door. Closed in. The anger building each day.
“Rip it up,” he barked.
I reached out and picked up the picture, holding it between my trembling hands.
I closed my eyes and tore the picture in half. But I knew that wouldn’t be enough for him. He wanted it in shreds.
I tore it again and again until the tiny pieces lay in my palm. Then I closed my fist around them.
My mum’s footsteps hurried up the stairs and then she appeared in the doorway, a choked sob emerging when she saw me on my knees.
But it was nothing new. This was his mantra.
It had been eight weeks since Emmitt died and his room remained untouched. Mine, however, was empty.
My da had taken everything away after the funeral. It was like he wanted to erase everything to do with me.
We’d gone in my room, and he’d forced me to break, ruin, destroy every single thing I was able to, and what I couldn’t, he did. He said if Emmitt wasn’t here to enjoy his stuff, then I wouldn’t either.
Then he took everything out of my room except my bed and that was only because of my mum. He’d have preferred if I slept on the floor with nothing.
“Go to your room,” my da said when my mum approached.
I was getting off easy tonight.
I climbed to my feet and brushed past him. My mum had her hand on my da’s arm, and tears stained her cheeks. But it was rare they didn’t. She was always crying.
And she never ate anymore.
“He’s only twelve.” I heard her say as I walked down the hallway. She no longer said it wasn’t my fault.
“Don’t start with me, Cora. He doesn’t deserve to be here. It should be Emmitt. He was my fuckin’ son and was going to be something.”
I didn’t hear her response, if there was one, as I went into my room and shut the door. A minute later I heard the lock click, and I opened my palm and let the pieces of the photo flutter to the floor with the rest of them. Hundreds of shredded photos all over my floor like a carpet of memories. A carpet of Emmitt.
I hated my da more than anything for what he made me do, but he was right.
I should’ve saved Emmitt. I should’ve walked home with him after school.
Sitting on the floor, I leaned against the wall and stared out the window and watched the sun slowly sink, leaving me in total darkness.
Only then did I get up and start training like I did every night.
When my da finally let me return to school, I’d find my brother’s tormentors.
And I’d make them pay for what they did.
I showered after Trevor left and was putting on my bra when there was a knock at the door. Shit, was it ten already? I slipped on my panties, and a pale pink T-shirt then tugged on my snug three-quarter-length jeans.
Another knock. Patient, but loud.
“One sec,” I called as I walked to the door.
I flung it open and my heart sailed. No, it didn’t sail. It flew out of my chest. Did Killian ever not look sexy? It was ten on a Sunday morning and we’d been at the club until two. He had on designer jeans that hugged his muscular thighs, a pair of black motorcycle boots, and a dark green T-shirt that appeared custom fit.
