I stand at the edge of the water, staring out at its darkness. The rain disturbs the surface, making it jagged and harsh. I feel him out there. He is coming for me. I can see the arch of his shoulders so clearly. The bend of his knee. The strength of his back. I see his hand, large and dry. But his face is a void.
The emptiness enrages me, both now and then. The anger builds, merging the smells of the forest with those of my father’s workshop. Glue and oil. Acrylic paint and dampness. They swirl like a tornado around him, around us.
“You killed her!” I scream at him, and I hear the voice of a fifteen-year-old in my head.
Strangely, I can hear his voice. It is clear and loud in response. It roars from the emptiness that is his face, my father’s face.
“What did you say?”
“You killed her, you bastard!”
My father stares at me. Slowly, he rises off his stool. His steps are like torture. His hand, open, rears back. And he slaps me across the face with enough force for me to falter backwards, my ear ringing and my vision a flash of pure white light.
“Get out of my house,” he hisses.
I stagger back, tasting blood in my mouth. My head spins. My back touches the doorway to his workroom. I can barely see through tears that burn with my shame, which grows with each shuffling step I take away from him, out into the basement, toward the steps. Where could I go? How could I be free?
But I’m not alone. As my bare feet shuffle across the cold red concrete floor, my brother appears in front of me, a ghost out of the darkness. That smile is on his face, but I can’t notice that. All I can think is that he will see the burning red mark on my face. The thin trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth. And worse, my tears.
“You can’t let him get away with that, Liam,” my brother whispers.
I try to step around him but his hand against my shoulder is firm. His words in my ear are a bitter, unimaginable poison.
“Mom needs to rest in peace.”