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“Before all of … this.”
“There was a time when my life wasn’t entirely defined by violence and bloodshed. I was a fairly ordinary child, all things considered. I had dreams and goals. But something happened that changed everything.” He pauses, as if gathering his thoughts before continuing. “My older brother Rowan and I … We were betrayed. We had to fight for our lives.” His voice is barely audible, but there’s an intensity behind his gaze that conveys the magnitude of what he went through. “Only one of us made it out.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and genuinely mean it. Losing someone you love is a soul-shattering pain that never truly goes away.
He grabs a cutting board and a knife and begins chopping up vegetables. “Obviously, that experience changed me. Later, I saw a documentary about your father. I deeply resonated with his views on justice. But when I saw you on that screen …” He trails off, laughing softly to himself. “I guess I just … lost it.”
Chapter
Thirty
HIM
Ipeek through the cracked door, and seeing no sign of Tammy, I step inside.
As I creep through the cramped trailer, disarray and chaos greet me everywhere. Floors are covered with clothing, broken appliances, and other trash, while forgotten boxes fill the corners. Ignoring the stench of stale alcohol and cigarettes that cling to every surface, I tiptoe toward my room.
I almost make it to my destination when I see her. Passed out in the hall, surrounded by half-empty bottles of booze and scattered syringes. This isn’t the first time I’ve found her like this, and it probably won’t be the last. Not caring whether the bitch is dead or alive, I step over her—only to feel her tugging at my pant leg.
“Damon Elliot, where have you been?” she slurs, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.
I shake her off and keep on walking, not bothering to make eye contact. “At the library,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my backpack for emphasis. “Studying for my tests, if you must know.”
“Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” she snaps, launching a bottle at me, which I barely dodge. It hits the wall, shattering to pieces. “I’m your mother, and you will fucking look at me when I’m speaking!”
My temples throb; I feel another migraine coming on. She’s always screaming, blaming me for everything—from her failings, to the weather, the traffic, and even the price of groceries. My fists clench in frustration and rage. I want to lash out, hit her or something. But I restrain myself and instead stare at her with contempt before finally turning away again.
“Don’t you walk away from me!” she yells, staggering to her feet. She clutches my arm, her sour breath on my face. “It’s all your fault, you know. If you weren’t such a fuck-up, none of this would’ve happened!”
Anger boils up inside of me, and I wrench myself from her grasp. I glare at her, despising her haggard skin and sunken cheeks. She’s let herself go worse than usual, though I’m not shocked; Rowan’s birthday is tomorrow. And she’s gone above and beyond in getting fucked up the past couple of weeks. “You’re not the only one who misses him,” I snap.
Without warning, she collapses into a heap at my feet, sobbing uncontrollably. I stare at her. Not with pity, but with disgust. I hurry to my room, shutting the door firmly behind me before locking it. I can still hear her screaming as I sit on my bed, depositing my backpack beside me. Knowing she’ll be at it for hours, I go over to my desk.
Pulling open the drawer to retrieve painkillers, I glance at the framed photo sitting atop the desk—one of Rowan and me, taken mere months before the unthinkable happened. He wasn’t just my brother, but also my best friend. Tomorrow, he would’ve been nineteen. It kills me that he’s not here right now, that some prick set us up and threw us to the wolves.
Of course, the police did jack shit. They claimed there wasn’t enough evidence to charge anyone and told us there was nothing they could do. But I knew that was a lie. We were seen as trash, born on the wrong side of the tracks. Our ‘justice’ system is a fucking joke.
The flashback of that night resurfaces in my mind, causing my stomach to churn. I remember the barricaded door, the screaming, and the gunshot that rang out through the house. The sheer helplessness I felt as I watched them drag Rowan away, unable to save him because of my wounds. I snatch the painkillers and slam the drawer shut, tears prickling my eyes as wave after wave of sorrow crashes over me.
I haven’t felt this kind of despair since he died. It feels like it’s never going to end—like no amount of time or distance will ever be enough for me to forget the void he left. I’m still haunted by his absence—by the final goodbye I never got the chance to say. My chest tightens; I can’t take being alone anymore. Everything is just too much to bear.
I rifle through my backpack, grab a bottle of water, and dump painkillers into my palm. I wonder if the rest of the bottle will prevent me from waking up tomorrow.
After swallowing the pills, I switch on the old TV, crank up the volume to drown out Tammy’s wailing, and flop on the bed. I don’t care what’s on; I just want to feel something else. Anything.
As drowsiness sets in, I remember the time we watched a meteor shower, how we made wishes on each falling star. Rowan knew it was silly, but he humored his little brother, anyway. I see his smile, his eyes that matched mine. Hear the echo of his laughter. Those were the good times—before our father abandoned us, before we had to scrape by, doing what we had to do to survive.
Before it all went wrong.
Tears slide down my cheeks, and I sob into my pillow. As I drift into sleep, my mind gets stuck on the looping memories of Rowan—his broken, battered body on the stretcher as emergency services carried him away for the last time. Gut-wrenching despair engulfs me until everything fades into darkness.
When I open my eyes again, it’s five in the morning. At first, I’m disappointed; I must not have taken enough pills. Sunlight filters through the curtains, and I groan, my head pounding. I rise, angrily shut them, and plop back onto the bed—and it’s then that I start paying attention to what’s on the television.
The documentary is about a notorious serial killer from Pennsylvania. I watch, captivated, as images of crime scenes flash on the screen. People talk about how this man—Cameron Cirillo, the Lakestone Reaper—was ‘such a friendly guy.’ Claims that they were oh-so shocked when they found out the things he’d done.
But when they played clips of him in court, I found myself agreeing with him. His brand of justice is something that resonates with me. The world is a fucked up place, with terrible people that get away with things they shouldn’t. When the justice system inevitably fails, I shall take matters into my own hands.
Suddenly, my heart stops. A girl appears on screen, her head ducked, her dark hair covering her face as reporters shove cameras at her. It’s Gwen Cirillo, Cameron’s daughter. A fire stirs to life inside of me; it’s like she’s calling to me, begging me to listen. I can’t take my eyes off her.
