Page 205 of Midnight Curfew

Pain hits my gut, and I pause, nearly hunching forward. My lungs constrict, and it hurts to breathe.

Fisting the pack, I shove it to the bed and walk from my room.

“Are the shutters secure in your room?” Iron asks, rushing by.

In my jeans and bare feet, I descend the stairs, hearing my family race around like a fucking tornado is on the house.

“Dallas!” Iron calls after me.

I glance at the pictures on the wall, my mother’s hair getting duller, her skin paler, and her body more frail as the years went on. There’s almost comfort in knowing I’ll never climb these stairs again after today. I haven’t been good for a single goddamn person, so why not move on?

Heading through the kitchen, I spot Trace kneeling in front of the fridge, stocking beer.

He twists his head toward me. “Hey, I got a couple bottles of that bourbon you like,” he says. “You want me to chill the rum?”

I ignore him and exit through the door that leads to the garage. In the corner, with the hoes and rakes and shovels, I find the thick handle of the ax. Trudging back inside, I come face-to-face with Macon.

“Oh, good,” he says, seeing the ax in my hand as he hauls some wooden planks onto his shoulder. “Grab those boards.” He gestures to the rest on the table. “Follow me up to Mars’s room.”

He leaves, and I keep walking, leaving the boards on the table as I climb the stairs behind him. He heads to the left to take the attic stairs to Mars’s room, and I go to the right, into his bedroom, and close the door.

Taking a chair from the wall, I lift my eyes to the rafter connecting two of the walls, behind his door. It’s been sanded down and re-stained, but a sharp eye can still detect the spot where the rope hung. A small curve in the wood sits just off-center, invisible to those who don’t know where to look.

Keeping the chair below me, I hop up, pushing through the pain, which has risen into my chest. Squeezing the handle with both hands, I rear back and swing. The ax cuts into the wood, the splinters cracking under the edge.

I swing again and again, planting one foot on the arm of the cushioned chair underneath my weight and hacking away at the beam.

It’s over. I’m not letting it stand anymore. I can leave this place, but not before I sever any proof that I was ever here. I don’t want my pictures on the walls, and I don’t want any memory of that day!

Bury it. Or fucking burn it. I want to know it’s gone.

Sweat starts dripping down my back, my arms burning as I peel the blade out of the wood and swing again, over and over.

“Dallas!” The door swings open behind me. “What are you doing?”

I lift the ax, ignoring Liv, and swing again, hearing the dull thud of the blade hitting wood.

“Army!” she calls.

I hack away, almost halfway through the thick rafter.

In a second, I hear my brother’s heavy footsteps as he enters the room. I jerk my head, holding the ax with my outstretched arm, his same green eyes flaring.

“Dallas, stop,” he tells me.

He checks out the broken rafter, his gaze flashing back to me. Liv stands behind him, and I hear more footsteps jogging up the stairs.

I keep going, growling as I cut again and again. I need it gone. I want to be free. I want to forget she was ever here.

“What are you doing?” Army asks, breathing fast. “Dallas, stop.”

Heavier footfalls reach the room, and I yank the ax out of the wood, turning and glaring at Macon as he walks in and lifts his head to see me.

“I don’t know how you can sleep in here,” I say, my voice thick with tears, with anger. “I don’t know why this is still here!”

I hack, bringing down the ax hard, the wood finally splintering in two. The bottom cracks, and I rear the ax back.

“Knock it off!” Macon yells.