It’s not like I’ll be trying to get a drink at the bar. I’m going to do what I always do—stand against the wall, staring into the crowd, willing the darkness inside me to hold off just a little longer. Just long enough for me to find her.
My mother’s screams wake me up.
They’re unending.
They’re agony.
And I know.
I know they found my sister.
And I know she’s dead.
I scramble out of bed, but my legs don’t hold me.
I crash to the floor.
I can’t breathe.
My lungs won’t fill.
I can’t…
Pain and sorrow and the heaviest sense of failure collapse on top of me.
I didn’t get to her.
I didn’t save her.
Mom’s wails continue to curl through the house.
My face feels contorted.
My mouth is open but no sound comes out.
Freya.
My baby sister.
She’s gone.
She’s never coming home.
Today was my sister’s funeral. And it killed my parents.
It killed a part of me too.
Standing here, alone under the glow of the moon, next to Freya’s freshly filled grave, I know I’ll never be the same.
I’ll never be the man I planned to be.
I’m going to end up as someone else.
Someone darker.
Two months later, I stand in the same spot and stare down at my mother’s grave, buried next to her daughter.
Dad stands at my side, coughing between silent sobs.
After Freya’s body was found in Vegas, abused and discarded, her cause of death labeled as a drug overdose, Mom gave up.
The doctors said it was pneumonia, and maybe it was, but she’d lost her will to live.
The reality of what happened to Freya, how she suffered her last weeks, days, hours… it was too much.
My dad is sick too. I can hear him struggling to breathe at night when I’m walking through the empty halls of our house.
He’s not going to get treated. I don’t have to ask him to know that he won’t.
And standing here, again, looking down at the women who meant the world to both of us, I don’t blame him.
I don’t take it personally that I’m not enough to keep him here.
A rare raindrop lands on the dirt.
I’m not sure I want to stay in this world either.
“Hans.” Dad’s voice is brittle, but I hear it as I pass his room.
Pausing my steps, I press my hand to his door, and it swings open.
Dad is in his bed, face pale, cheeks sunken in as he fights his way through a coughing fit.
It’s been exactly one week since Mom’s last breath, and he looks ready for his.
He lifts his hand, a small movement gesturing me in.
We haven’t talked. Not to each other. There’s nothing to say.
The first few times someone came to our door, offering condolences, bringing food, I answered. I kept a passive look on my face. But then I couldn’t anymore.
I couldn’t hide the rage that filled me.
I couldn’t say thank you.
And then the people stopped knocking.
My feet are quiet on the thick rug covering the floor. It’s shades of red. Embroidered flowers of every shape and size. Mom picked it out. It was so her.
I stop at the foot of the bed.
If this is going to be our goodbye…
I swallow.
I’m not sure how much more I can handle.
I don’t know how much my heart can endure.
But as I look at my father, I realize he’s already gone.
I place my hand on the blanket over his foot. “It’s okay, Dad.”
His chin quivers, and his chest shakes with his inhales.
“Come here.” He raises an arm.
Slowly, I move to the side of the bed, then bend down and gently hug his shoulders.
A hand rests against my back.
This is it, then.
When I pull back, his eyes slide over to his nightstand.
I follow his gaze.
Sitting next to the framed photo of him and Mom on their wedding day is an ornately carved wooden box.
I recognize it. It was my grandfather’s, given to my father. And now to me.
I stand before it.
The latch doesn’t lock, and the hinge has been kept oiled, so it opens smoothly.
The overhead light is dimmed, but it still glints off the blades inside the box.
Dueling knives.
Antiques.
But sharp as hell.
I close the lid and reset the latch.
Lifting the box into my arms, I turn back to face my dad.
He holds my gaze, his eyes showing more life than I’ve seen since the morning everything changed.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.