by L. J. Stock
"No. No, no, no! I won't... I can't..."
"Lad..."
The officer stepped closer, but I took a step to the side. I couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in on me, and my chest burned like the weight of the world weighed solely on it.
Before the officer could take another step, I was running, my trainers squeaking against the concrete as my dad told him to let me go. I wasn't sure how I was able to move, but I continued putting one foot in front of the other, pushing my body hard and fast with every step I took, the tears stinging my eyes as my ragged breaths burned.
I ran through the factory, ignoring the wave of the guard. I ran past Scott's house, the instinct to turn in voided by the act of repetition and the need to keep running. I hit the edge of the city and took off into the forest, not paying a bit of attention to where I was going until I hit a parcel of land that had nothing around for miles.
Sucking in the deepest breath possible, I shouted as loudly as I could manage, each word of profanity eaten by the open air and swallowed whole until I found myself on my knees, gasping for breath as the tears came falling. My sobs weren't my own, the hoarse and faint sound more fitting to a child than me.
I felt weak. I felt like I was letting her down by allowing this to break me as much as I was. I felt like I was... I was letting her down.
Pushing to my feet and grinding the heels of my hands into my leaking eyes, I growled at myself for my idiocy and selfishness. I'd been acting like my father.
Dean was home alone. He probably had no fucking clue that Mum was gone, because Dad wouldn't have gone home. Dad would have gone to the pub, and I... was an arsehole. Turning in a circle, I connected my fist with a tree.
The white hot flare of pain connected to the twin version in my chest and doubled me over. How could I have been so stupid? Stupid and selfish and... I couldn't even follow my own thought process anymore. It was an alternate version of reality - so surreal it couldn't be fact. Yet, it was, and the pain in my hand reminded me of it with every throb.
Mum was gone.
Dean was alone.
And Dad didn't give a shit about us.
What the hell was I going to do?
The path back to the house seemed longer and more arduous than when I'd been running away from it. The angry, gray clouds were lingering in the air, matching my mood as the pain in my hand grew to an apocalyptic level. I felt hollow and empty, stupid and selfish. I'd been so lost in my own grief, I hadn't given Dean a thought. He was only a kid; he still needed Mum around. Shit. I still needed her around and I was nineteen.
I'd never been much of a crier in life. I was more the type of lad that hit something when my emotions got to be overwhelming. If there was nothing to hit, I shouted and swore until I felt better. It usually worked well for me, but when one of the most important people in your life has just been killed in an accident, it's hard to get past that, and the tears seemed to come as quickly as my pounding feet hit the pavement. They hurt almost as much as the fire in my lungs, dragging in breaths making it so much harder as I started to shatter.
I felt like such a pussy, but how else was I supposed to deal with this? I was at a loss.
The sawing breaths that expanded my lungs were coming too hard and fast, and my cheeks were still wet from my tears when I finally arrived home. I stopped just short of the front door and pulled my sleeves over my hands, brushing at my eyes with the heels of them so I didn't shock Dean too badly. I don't believe he'd ever seen me cry, just like I hadn’t seen him cry since he grew out of nappies. I was required to be the adult in this scenario. I was going to have to be the one to tell him our mum was dead. There was no one else.
Fuck, did I wish there was.
For a full minute, I truly wasn't sure I was capable of it. I leaned against the wall beside the door and stared out at the street. The sheer normalcy of it should have been comforting, but it wasn't. Not even a little. A huge part of me was wondering why the world wasn't mourning like I was - how everyone could go on as normal when my world had crashed and sent me to my knees. Rational thought was an elusive thing, it seemed, which wasn't going to do me many favours when it came to talking to Dean about this. How was he going to react? He and Mum had always been close.
I wasn't ever going to find out unless I went in there and did what I had to do. As much as I resisted, I knew I was the only one that was going to. Dad was the most selfish fuck I'd ever known in my life. He was probably drinking his bloody sorrows away, while I stood here trying to find the words to tell my kid brother, his youngest son, that Mum was dead.
Turning to face the door, I pushed it out of my way, my eyes darting to the living room where Dean was curled up with his hood over his head, and his hands mashing the buttons on the controller. He looked so calm and at peace, I envied him his oblivion. I almost wished I could go back in time and change my decision to get to Dad first - to spare myself from hearing the most devastating news of my life so institutionally.
Mum was everywhere in that room, from the pictures on the sideboard to the fancy curtains she'd made. There was even one of her lesson plans sat on the arm of her chair where she'd been working on it for after summer. She was so corporeal; she was the soul of this family.
Stumbling inside, I wandered around the couch and grabbed the remote from Dean’s hand, hitting pause before dropping it to the floor. The pause was an automatic thing, something I hadn't thought about at the time, but looking back, I knew it was the thought of upsetting him further that had driven me to it.
"Oi, E. I wa’ playin' that."
Sinking to my knees in front of him, I ignored the shove he gave me as I landed. I was at a loss again, but I had to say something. "I know, mate. It's just..."
That was about as much as I could come up with, so I threw my arms around him and fought the strangling emotion that crashed over me again. I needed words - any at that point. Just something that wouldn't completely freak him out more than my hug just had. He struggled against me, flung names at me in typical brotherly fashion, but I held on tightly.
"Dean, there was an awful accident that Mum was involved in. She was hit by a car, and she... She didn't make it, kid."
"That's a sick fuckin' lie," he growled, pulling back, his fists pushing into my shoulders as he pried himself away from me. I watched as his eyes finally focused on my face and then lowered to take in my swelling hand. He frowned and shook his head, his top lip curling like he was going to give me a sarcastic comment before his face crumpled into despair.
There was no need to reiterate the statement. He knew. He knew I was being straight with him. It was worn in the shadow of his eyes, the set of his jaw and the balling of his fists. His world, much like mine, had just come crashing down around him. I'd thought I was too broken to suffer anymore pain, but seeing his desolation only proved me wrong. I didn't just hurt for me, I ached for the two of us. I grieved our loss and I mourned a future that could have been.
"I'm sorry, mate."
Words were not forthcoming, and when he looked at me, I felt like utter shit. He deserved more. He deserved someone who could console him. He needed an adult he trusted to hold him. He needed Mum.
She wasn't here, though. She never would be again.
Jesus, that thought alone was almost too parlous to process. What Dean needed was someone who had some experience delivering emotionally splintering words. Not me and a stuttered confirmation that sounded so definitive and final. I hated my dad and myself in that moment, because no matter how much I needed to be better for him, I had nothing but my grief to offer.
Dean and I cried together for the first time in our lives. We let ourselves bleed for what we'd lost in a senseless accident. We weren't anything but ourselves, lost in our grief.
Dean was the first to gather his wits about him. He pushed me away, his eyes devoid of any emotion at all, even as I landed on my arse. He just stood up and gazed around the room, looking lost and younger than his seventeen years. With his
sleeves pulled down over his hands, he swiped under his eyes and headed to the kitchen.
There were no words, which in and of itself was uncharacteristic of Dean, but when I heard the dishes being rattled around and the water running, I had no choice but to drag myself from the ground and head into the kitchen. Grief is a funny old thing - I know that now, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing. I was worried about him, and that worry was the only thing keeping me from sinking into a hole of my own and not resurfacing again. Unknowingly, and possibly unwillingly, Dean had become my anchor.
I'm uncertain why I decided to follow him into the kitchen, but when I did, I found him stood in the middle of the room, steam billowing from the sink as he stared at Mum's coffee cup on the table. It still had the mark from her lipstick on the rim. It was in that moment that I realised how quickly life changed - how fleeting it was. It had only been that morning that she'd been there, teasing me about my hangover and telling Dean not to play for too long because square eyes wouldn't suit him. She'd kissed us both on the forehead as she passed. Looking at the clock, I knew she was due home any minute, but we'd be waiting forever to see her.
Reaching out for Dean, I dropped my hand the moment he shook it off, my eyes following him around the room as he picked up dishes left over from breakfast and my midnight snack last night.
"Dean?"
Lifting one shoulder, he rubbed his ear against it before dropping the plates on the counter. Then he swept the room again, his wild eyes briefly meeting mine.
"Mum asked me to wash up. I gotta get it done. It needs t’ be fuckin’ done."
"Mate."
He didn't respond but shoved a plate in the bowl of water, his hands following it in before he pulled them free, the skin almost scarlet. He looked between them and the water for a second before plunging them back in. He scrubbed angrily before dropping the steaming plates in the draining board and starting again. All I could do was stand there and watch, another crack running through the length of me for this kid that I could do nothing for, even though I loved the shit out of him.
I couldn't watch him long. He was torturing himself to stop the emotional wasteland eating away at him. It was harrowing to see this kid, who'd always been so full of life, punishing himself. It wasn't who he was. I was already drowning in my own emotions, unable to keep them contained so I could be there for him completely. If this was the way he chose to deal with his grief, who was I to take that away from him?
Who the fuck was I kidding? I could have stayed and helped him. I could have offered him some kind of support, but it hurt terribly. Essentially, it was the only thing he could do to ease the bereft pain he had inside of him, because he knew it would make her happy, and for those few moments, maybe he was able to forget. All I could think about, however, was the fact that it didn't matter, because she wasn't coming home ever again.
Pain and grief separately are hard enough things to deal with, but put together they can have an intense effect on a person. When I think back to leaving the kitchen, I legitimately don't remember much. It was like being stuck in a thick fog where you can't see past your own nose. I was numb, cold, and encapsulated in a deep-seated ache that sat heavily in my chest.
Every time my mind wandered to my new reality, I shut down again, the noises from the kitchen the only things keeping me company.
It could have been an hour or it could have been four, but Dean eventually joined me in the living room, both of us flat on our backs on opposite couches, staring at the ceiling as though it held all the answers.
The more time that passed, the more my hand throbbed painfully. Each tick of the clock’s second hand brought more physical pain until that eventually drowned the emotional ache in my chest. It wasn't long until it felt like my hand was triple its normal size and in a pan of fire. I was drowning in it as I held it to my chest.
The intensity grew to the point of nausea, sending me to my feet. Dean sat up, watching me with wide eyes that lingered on the purple swelling of my hand.
"It's nowt, mate."
"Dunt look like nowt, E. Want help wif it?"
Suddenly, in that moment, the boxing in our pasts became a saving grace. Dean and I had had plenty of dislocations. They hurt like fuck, but the relief when you slid the joint back into place was magical. You just had to rest that shit for a couple days after the fact. Holding my hand out to Dean, I watched him drag in a deep breath before he reached out, felt along the bone -which sent fire through my veins -and set his fingers in place.
"Ready?"
"No, but just fucking do it."
"On three, yeah?"
"Dean!"
"One..." His fingers moved quickly, lobbing the bone back into the socket. The flash of red hot pain was so instantaneous, I hardly had time to react before the relief set in.
"Thank you."
Dean fell into the chair that had Mum's stuff on the arm, while I fell back onto the sofa, the throbbing in my head beating in time with the dull ache in my hand. It was much better than it had been, thanks to my kid brother.
The rest of the day was spent in silence, neither of us knowing what to say as the reality of it all started to set in. So many words battled around in my head as I tried to find the right thing to say to my kid brother. Nothing came out so I sat on the couch, watching him sitting in the chair, elbows on his knees as he stared out of the front window. When we did move, it was in solemn reticence, like our limbs were too heavy for our bodies. Aimless wandering from room to room was all we had, and there was no peep from Dad. We didn't even mention him, if I was being honest. Dean had come to the same conclusion as I had: Dad was a worthless twat. His grief was always going to be more important than ours. I understood he loved her more than he'd ever loved us, but he didn't have to suffer this alone. We could have leaned on one another. Unfortunately, he was more interested in heading down to the pub where he could get sympathy, and it would be all about him.
I'd almost given up on him coming home when he finally stumbled through the door. We heard him coming from a mile away. We couldn’t miss the shuffled footsteps and crash against the door as he tried and failed with his keys several times.
Dean and I looked at the door expectantly. I'm not sure what we thought was going to happen, but we probably should have known better. We might as well have been invisible for all the attention he paid us. We didn't need the obvious pointed out. The man was out of his skull drunk as he stumbled inside, reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. Two steps in, he tripped over the little table Mum had put there long before even I'd been born.
"Who the fuck put that shit there?" he growled, swiping the thing aside and kicking it. Dean stood as though about to defend the table and Mum for putting it there, but I held my hand out, silencing him. I didn't want to have to smack my drunk dad for attacking my kid brother, which is exactly where it was heading.
Dad stumbled toward the stairs all bleary-eyed and incoherent, his eyes and cheeks bright red. For a second I felt sorry for him, losing his wife so suddenly. I felt the grief for him, too, until he stumbled again, catching the bannister and turning at the last minute to see us both sat there, but all he did was stare. I was sitting there begging for him to say something, over and over and over again in my head. If not for me, then for Dean who needed something from our last surviving parent. He was just a kid.
Of course, I was let down once again. Dad straightened himself out for a minute and we got nothing but a wave as he tripped up the first stair, his heavy footprints trailing up and over us. Drag, thump, drag, thump - it was like some zombie making quick time, but less funny.
Both of us followed his path with our eyes, our heads tipping back as the door slammed above our heads and the loud sobbing started. We looked at one another, then turned to stare with a mixture of disgust and resignation at the ceiling above us.
If there was one guarantee, one constant I expected, it was that this was typical of Dad. We didn't exist
to him in that moment, let alone matter, mainly because that would mean having to care about someone other than himself.
Once again, that left Dean stuck with me. That left me having to be the adult when I was more lost than I'd ever been in my life. Then the solution came to me.
"I need a fucking drink," I growled, breaking the encumbered weight of woe that continued to rain down on us. Pushing up from the couch and shaking out my aching hand, I headed to the cabinet where Mum and Dad kept the liquor, ruffling Dean's hair affectionately as I passed. "You want one?"
Dean, still eyeing the ceiling, nodded in response. I could see his narrowed eyes and glare of revulsion, and I wondered for a second how the plaster hadn't crumpled under the intensity of it. He was mumbling under his breath, expletives falling like little bombs, echoing everything I'd felt only seconds before. Oddly, a random thought that we finally agreed on something stumbled through my mind before tumbling into the black hole of emotions residing there, while I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and a glass.
Handing Dean a tumbler, I watched as he knocked the amber liquid back in one and shuddered before holding the glass out to me for another. Having had the foresight to grab the bottle, I obliged him with a top up before necking my own and refilling. Hey, if Dad was leading by example, why the fuck not? At least we didn't have to think anymore. We could drink ourselves into comas and be blissfully free from having to remember.
Shot after shot was taken that night. There was no television, no laughter, just the burning trail to the gullet before doing it all over again. Neither of us spoke; we just bathed in our misery until we passed out.
I woke up the next morning with an empty bottle in my hand, my mouth dry and dirty. My head was pounding, but the sharp pain in my chest was what brought the events of the day before rushing back. I actually entertained the thought that I was having a heart attack when I finally sat up, because the pain had manifested into something physical, like little stabbing knives running around in my chest.