46 | Liam
Liam
We have been traveling for three days when we finally arrive in our hometown.
We haven’t been here since my family’s death.
Nate’s parents were already thinking of moving to New York when we came to live with them.
After the interrogation ended, the fire was ruled an accident, and they signed the papers for our adoption.
After that, it was no more than a month before we were all packing to move to the family’s house in New York.
I will admit, some of my best years were in that place.
At first, it felt hard to connect with it.
I was missing my family and had guilt rotting in my heart for the reason they died.
After the first wave of grief washed over, though, I realized this was for the best in a few ways, at least. My sisters and mother would never actually be free of my father if he didn’t die.
They would eventually meet the same fate, but it would have been filled with pain and torture.
I am not saying that killing them in the fire was the right thing to do.
It wasn’t a hero move. We were supposed—and planning—to get them out of there.
At least Mike was. I am not sure I remember much of the planning or the night that everything happened.
It’s blurry, as if my mind has tried to shut down the pain by blocking the memory.
I once read that this is what your brain does to cope with trauma.
It shuts down. It has the ability to block out entire parts of your life in order to protect you—months, years.
In some cases, when the trauma is so horrible and at a young age, it can even split your consciousness into several fragments, each designed for a purpose to essentially help you survive.
But when you get older, it becomes more fierce, and instead, it blocks your memory.
It builds walls to keep you outside. I think that’s what happened to me.
I blocked out months and months after the fire—months of being in agony and blaming myself.
And, in a way, if you think about it, it’s the only reason I truly survived.
Nathan’s parents decided it was best for all of us if we moved and started over fresh in order to protect us, a fact I am grateful for.
Too many rumors circulated in this town, and suspicion had risen about how both families died.
Multiple tragic accidents were suspected not to be so accidental.
They weren’t wrong about it. However, it made things a little difficult for us, because when people saw us, they only saw killers.
Behind the killers, though, were children—victims themselves, desperate for an out.
Killers are not always monsters, even though some are by nature.
Trauma can shape you into one just as much as nature can create one.
I am not sure what’s better. It certainly doesn’t justify your actions if you have trauma to back them up.
So many people, after all, manage to survive without turning into monsters themselves.
Why would we be exonerated of our horrible crimes because of it?
It’s not like anyone truly forced us to pick this path. We did it ourselves.
Nate’s father knew the truth from the start.
I believe he knew it before we even called him that night.
Mike and Nate had been planning a backup plan in case our original plan failed.
I didn’t know much about it. They chose to keep me out, and honestly, I am glad they did.
I wasn’t the same person I am now back then.
My loyalty was still with them, but parts of it were tied to a family I so cherished.
Even with that knowledge—that of the terrible people we were becoming—he still decided to adopt us.
He knew everything. Mike told him in detail what happened the first night we stayed at their house, too.
He didn’t leave a single detail behind. I am not sure if it was pity, or the fact that his son loved Mike so much, even if they didn’t know the nature of that love yet.
I am not sure if he thought protecting us was some act of kindness.
However, I will be forever grateful for the fact that he took us in.
In my mind, when I think of a father, he is the person who appears.
He is the standard I hold high, and the man I hope I will become if I ever get a chance to be a father myself.
It’s not, of course, something I consider possible. This isn’t a lifestyle to bring a child into. Even if we are taking a break now, I am positive it won’t last forever. And even if it does last, the crimes we committed for a decade still hang over us like a fog of doom waiting to consume us whole.
The town seems so strange now, looking at it with different eyes and more information about our past. I know it is as much their fault as it is ours for what happened.
I can see clearly the ways they could have stopped everything we endured by speaking up.
Because in a place as small as this, it’s not hard to know what happens in other people’s homes.
They knew about Mary. It is a small town; everyone knows everything.
But none of them did anything to protect us when my sisters and I arrived at school with bruises.
They did nothing to protect Mike when he shared his experience with the school psychologist the first year after his stepfather started coming to his room at night.
He was told not to share the information with anyone else, just as I was told to hide the marks my father left on my body.
Instead of protecting us, they silenced us.
They chose to keep us bound to our nightmares.
And for what? Is how it eventually ended better than Child Protective Services getting involved and taking us away when we were still young and had a future?
Was all this horror truly worth it? I doubt it.
I don’t think it was worth it at all. I wish someone had cared even a little to help us out of the nightmares we lived in before we had to dip our hands in blood.
Now that we are back here, memories both good and bad come to mind as we park the vans in the driveway of Nate’s family home. Our home. The only place we actually felt like we belonged for a moment or two, even if we didn’t stay long enough.
I park and exit the car, tossing my keys to Mike. “I am not dealing with the bikes right now,” I declare as I walk inside the house.
We all still have our rooms set up here, and I climb the long stairway to mine.
Nate and Mike, for some weird reason, always pick different rooms in every house we stay in.
In this one, their rooms are next to each other beside the living room downstairs, while mine is next to Nathan’s parents' room on the floor above. We chose our rooms the first night we moved here, and Mike chose the one next to Nathan’s.
I am more than grateful for that little detail now; I don’t need to be hearing sex noises all night and day.
It was mainly the reason I chose this room to begin with, but now I don’t need the reminder of other people’s happiness, even if those people are my own family.
Without the hunts to keep them busy, I am sure they will do nothing else.
I step inside the dark room and turn the lights on.
My eyes roam the familiar space—a big bed in the middle with a Victorian-style bed frame.
This house was passed down from son to son.
Generations of Nathan’s family lived here, and none of them ever thought to redecorate.
The furniture is as old as the house, but in perfect shape, and to my surprise, I was always a fan of this room.
I don’t know what it is that makes vintage furniture so beautiful.
Maybe it’s the fact that it looks like it doesn’t belong in this era, or maybe it's the fact that I feel as if that time in the world was a better one than the one we live in now.
Dark red and black velvet fabrics were used both for the bed’s details and the curtains.
The soft maroon carpet beneath my feet brings back a comforting memory of my first night in this room.
I remember the first night here. When we first arrived in the middle of the night, we were asked to pick a room.
Mike had already been in their house countless times, sneaking around with Nate.
I knew that, but I wasn’t supposed to, since neither of them had admitted their sexuality to themselves, let alone anyone else.
So when we picked our rooms the way we did, everyone was happy with the arrangement, but of course, the boys picked a fight about the rooms just to hide their excitement about sharing a floor away from everyone else.
Even with all the grief I felt, it was nice to see my brother excited about something.
This place felt like home from the first moment we stepped inside.
It felt as though we had always belonged here.
We were welcomed, loved, and appreciated.
No one tried to hit us, abuse us, or starve us.
We could do anything we wanted, and the few rules Nathan’s father had were not even a drop in the bucket compared to those from my father.
We had never come back here before, so the room arrangement never changed.
Not that I would be willing to change it anyway.
We left Jess behind; I know that was the right decision—hell, I was the one who made it.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t hurting me just as much.
And being next to two people in love who are still living in their honeymoon phase years into dating won’t make it any easier.
For that reason, the comfort of this room will be much needed as I lick my wounds and heal, while the boys heal theirs with sex and booze.
It’s funny how different our coping mechanisms are.
And even though I know Jessica’s absence will be hard on them, too, I know it’s not the same.
Because they aren’t left back at zero. Being alone. They have each other.
I walk to the room next to mine, knowing there is a bar installed there, fully stocked with Nate’s father’s whiskey collection.
The man had taste. We used to break into his alcohol stash as college students and get drunk on an expensive bottle of whiskey every time we visited them in New York.
He had a fully stocked bar there, too. Most of the bottles in this one are old, but alcohol only gets better as the years pass.
Besides, I am pretty positive most of them aren’t even open.
Of course, the house is clean, and the mini-fridge is fully stocked with ice, even though we haven’t been here in forever.
We pay a lot of money to maintain the properties that originally belonged to Nate’s family.
It gives the false appearance that we are truly mourning the death of our parents by traveling the country, and that eventually we will return to live in one of the properties.
The fact that we are here now solidifies this.
It will work in our favor, especially after the mess we made in the last town.
We have trusted people who come here to air out the house, clean, and take care of the plants.
Two days ago, Nathan called them and asked them to fully stock the fridge, put ice in the mini-fridge of every room, and restock supplies.
He also specified that any items that had expired should be replaced.
In addition, he asked them to redecorate both his room and Mike’s with a more modern aesthetic, as well as the rest of the house, except for his parents’ bedroom.
When I was asked about it, I refused to change anything in mine.
With just a few days' notice, I was expecting to come here and find the house a mess—furniture halfway through being moved, empty spaces. However, it looks like I overestimated the power of money. Everything looks as though it has always been here. Every space is decorated as if it belongs in a furniture store display. Modern, clean, and minimal. It’s almost perfect.
And the fact that my room feels like stepping into a different era compared to the rest of the house makes it feel even more precious.
I pour some whiskey into my glass, raising it to no one but the ghosts of our past. “To home,” I say, taking a sip of my drink and settling into the armchair next to the bar.
We are finally home.