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I sneer. I have no doubt Alex knows what is up, but I bet everyone figures he has the best chance of getting a response from me. Might as well give the people what they want, then.
Sebastian:I wasn’t going to attend that shit-show. No reason to bother with it. I’ll see you afterward.
With it being so early, Alex doesn’t answer, and I find myself wishing he would, just for the distraction. It’s so tempting to try and call Julia, just to hear her voice after the awful dream, but I know she won’t answer. She hasn’t in days. So, with the past on my mind so heavily that I can’t think of anything else, I shrug on my robe and head to my study.
There, in a locked drawer in my desk, I find what I’m looking for—a photo album. The only visual reminder of those awful weeks I keep, just for times like these when I need to remind myself that I survived it and made a life for myself despite the tragedy.
I consider myself as having lived two lives; one before the explosion, and one after. I flip through the album pages and look at the photos of the man I was before. They are pictures of Dad and I before the hunting trip, happy and carefree. It’s hard to imagine either of us ever being that young.
Just a few pages later, though, is me in my second life. The one I’m still living. The pictures I’m looking at were taken at the funeral for my family, but there is one that sticks out among the others. It’s the one of Julia and I, and it makes my heart ache more than ever. Her hand is holding my arm tightly as if she’s afraid to let me go, desperate to keep me by her side, and I can’t reconcile it with her absence now. I brush a finger on her beautiful silhouette, letting out a sigh.
With everything we had to fight for, and to fight through, how come you are so ready to give up on me now?
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO…
1
Sebastian
I takea deep breath and stand in front of my father’s bedroom door. It’s just a slab of wood, brass knob under my fingertips, but it feels like a vast, uncrossable wall. I feel like shit even telling Dad that it’s time to leave, but as much as I would like to let him stay home and avoid all the heartbreak that is yet to come, I know it isn’t feasible. We both have to say goodbye, and as shallow as it is, we also have to make an appearance for the press. A show of unity for whoever did this to us…to whoever has broken my father irreparably.
It’s the day of my mother’s and siblings’ funeral, and although it’s been a week since the incident, we’re still struggling just as much to cope with this new reality. But I know that I have to be strong for what’s left of my family, and my father especially. With a deep breath, I knock, pushing the door open without waiting for a response. I can hear a faint rustling sound coming from inside, but no response comes, even when I call out. Slowly, I walk through the room and find my dad standing by the window, lost in thought. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks like he's aged ten years in just seven days. His skin, once tan with health, looks paper-thin, now permanent frown creases pulling at his mouth.
“Dad,” I say softly, trying to get his attention. “Everyone is waiting for you. We need to go to the cathedral.”
He doesn’t turn around, and I can see that he’s lost in his own world. I take a step closer and reach out to touch his shoulder, and he jumps under my touch, but still says nothing.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, my voice shaky with emotion.
He turns to face me, and I can see the pain and sadness etched on his face. “How can you ask me that?”
I flinch. “Sorry. It’s just a habit I guess. Of course, you aren’t okay. I’m not either, but we still have to go.”
“That’s right,” he says bitterly, steadying himself on his cane. “Even our mourning is on someone else’s schedule.” His voice might be barely audible, but the anger it carries is not. I remain observing him as he takes a long breath, his eyes going to the floor before flicking back on me. “After the funeral, we have to meet with Willem and his team.”
I feel a surge of frustration at his words. Today is about saying goodbye to Mom and my siblings, not dealing with lawyers and paperwork.
“Dad, we don’t have to do that today. We can take care of it tomorrow. Today isn’t about anyone but us.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the conflict in his eyes. “Who did this? Who could go as far as placing a bomb in your car to kill you?”
The change of subject is rapid, but not altogether unexpected. “We’ll find out, Dad, I promise you. We have men already on it.” I know it’s not good enough, but I just don’t have the answers that he wants yet. “We have to go, we’re running late.”
“Fine,” he mutters as he turns from the window, his once strong and commanding presence now weakened by grief and age. He leans heavily on a walking cane, refusing my offer of help. “I can manage,” he says firmly, his voice strained.
How is this the same man that was just walking through the forest with me only a few days ago, carrying a hunting rifle? It’s almost as if he died that day, too. Or at least most of him.
After a nearly silent car ride, we make our way to the cathedral, the somber atmosphere of the day heightened by the presence of security personnel, their watchful eyes scanning the crowds for any potential threats. Somehow, it doesn’t make me feel any safer. In fact, it just leaves a terrible heaviness in my chest, thinking about why exactly all this is necessary.
The ancient, majestic cathedral stands tall, usually a beacon of hope and solace for those seeking refuge from the storm of life, but for me, it’s the last place I want to be. I take a moment to look around and take in the place, trying futilely to put myself in the right mindset. The high ceilings and ornate walls are decorated with intricate carvings and paintings, depicting scenes from the Bible, and the pews are arranged in neat rows, with cushions for comfort. Beneath my feet, the floor is made of smooth, polished stone.
The light filtering through the stained glass windows casts a warm glow over the space, which is full of people I recognize but I’m just too numb to acknowledge one by one. As the sunlight streams through, the colors dance and shimmer, casting a kaleidoscope of hues on the walls, floors, and faces of the mourners.
The altar at the front of the cathedral is grand and imposing, with a marble surface and tall candlesticks on either side. Above it, a large crucifix hangs, reminding us of the sacrifice that was made for us. The space around the altar is adorned with floral arrangements, some appropriately subdued whites and pale yellows, while others bloom in garish designs that feel inappropriate.
There are three caskets, of course, all three glowingly pale wood, polished to a mirror sheen. I can’t look at them, even though I know they are all but empty.
Explosions don’t leave much to bury. The thought makes stomach acid rise in my throat.
