Chapter 24 Goodbye Horses #2
My icy fingers are already beginning to shake.
I lift a cold hand to another stone a few feet above the one I’m currently clinging to.
I can feel a thin layer of mossy scum on this one.
I shift my hand to the right searching for one with less moss.
My fingers find purchase and I repeat the same action.
Again, I must quickly lift my other arm and reach above me, to take the weight off my ruined ankle.
My broken finger catches on one of the stones, forcing it backward even more.
A guttural scream leaves my throat and echoes tormentingly all around me.
I clutch my hand to my chest and teeter dangerously.
Quickly, I replant my hand on the edge of a stone to stabilize myself before I fall.
My head spins, breathless with the effort and pain of it all.
I look down and see that I am several feet off the ground now.
Ok, Kat. See? You’ve got this. Keep going.
Still shaking, I continue climbing, the fingers on my non-fucked hand grasping at a stone I thought jutted out farther than it did.
My fingernails slide and rip along the edge, threatening to tear off.
I quickly lift my good leg to try and stay on the wall, but without having time to carefully look, my foot lands upon a mossy stone, and slides off.
With a terrible lurch in my stomach, I realize I am falling backward. Before I can even let out a cry, my tailbone slams hard onto the wet cold earth. I wretch forward with a groan as white-hot bolts of pain rocket up my back and neck and into my head. Fuck! I let out a low wail.
It’s getting darker by the minute, and soon I won’t be able to see at all. Aside from that, I don’t think my throbbing ankle and finger are up for another attempt. Not to mention the fresh, pounding pain in my tailbone and spine.
“You are going to die down here,” a silky soft voice whispers in my head.
Thinking now of conserving my energy and body heat, I curl up against the stone curve of the well.
I tuck my legs tightly against my core as best I can with the pain from my ankle, head, and back radiating through me in blinding waves.
Maybe I should pray, I think. Isn’t that what people do in situations like these?
Not that people were often in situations like this.
Dreamily, I think of the woods behind Pearson House. I see the wraparound porch, my porch, overlooking the dense trees. I can smell the pines, hear the wind and the rain moving through them. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a while.
____________________
ZAYN
God, I fucking hate him.
I watch him, peering through the rusted spikes of the old wrought iron gate surrounding the back property of Bronwin Home. He stretches and takes a long pull from his flask.
I mean, I’m sure there was a time that I once loved him. Maybe as a newborn. But since I’ve been cognizant enough to make my own decisions, I’ve despised the man.
Mom strides by him, her head bent down low.
A wicker basket is clutched tight in the crook of her arm.
She’d just finished her daily ritual of gathering fresh flowers from the garden for the kitchen table.
I’ve lost track at this point of the number of vases he’s shattered in his rages. And they were getting more frequent.
As mom passes him, he darts his arm out to grab her.
He drags her body to him, puts his face in hers.
His large hand crushes the roses she collected.
His lips curl as he says something to her, but I stand too far away to make it out.
Mom juts her chin upward, meeting his gaze.
She had thrown out the remainder of his vodka this morning.
Something she did whenever she got brave and wanted to stem the flow of his rage.
He had probably discovered his stash was gone.
He slaps her across the face. Mom’s whole head whips sideways, blood gleaming on her lip. I straighten up, nearly calling out. My chest rises and falls hard. My fist clenching at my side. I’m getting bigger by the day, growing in both strength and height. Soon I’ll be eye level with him.
Dad’s hands seize mom by the upper arms and shake her. Her head jerks back and forth like a rag doll. The rest of the flowers fall utterly discarded. Like trash on a sidewalk.
The basket falls to the ground. Dad reaches out and grabs at one of her breasts, twisting it, hard. Mom’s pained cry echoes across the yard. Then his hands fly to her neck, wrap around her throat, and start to squeeze.
My eyes flit to the fallen roses on the ground, then back up to his hands on her throat. And like a rubber band snapping under pressure, I break. I’m finally done. Done with allowing it to continue.
I just… snap. Releasing a snarl from deep within my chest, I hurtle towards them.
My growl morphs into a gruff cry, as I reach them.
I thrust my hands out and shove him back from Mom, hard.
He swings at me, but I duck. I ball my fist and slam it into his head.
Dad’s body flies backward and lands with a thud on the rain-damp earth.
“Zayn!” Mom’s startled cry rings out beside me.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, blood pounding in my ears. I turn to face my father. He remains still, unmoving on the ground.
“Get UP!” I bellow, balling my hand into a fist again, readying myself for an advance.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir at all.
“Martin!” Mom screams, as she scrambles toward him on her hands and knees. I follow her, approaching cautiously. Nearly sixteen years of experience tells me this could be some trick—not to trust the bastard. To have my fucking guard up.
Coming level with his face, I peer down.
Dad’s body lays still, an empty shell. His glassy eyes are open—almost surprised. It’s then that I notice the jagged rock just to the left of his head. I see what looks like little white chips of bone, and a strange pinkish red matter. Dark blood pools around the grass under my feet.
My heart hammers in my chest as I take a step back. Beads of sweat cool my forehead. But I don’t shudder, my hands no longer shake. My mother’s shriek pierces the haze, and I am jolted back as if emerging from being underwater.
“Zaney, what did you do?” her voice wails, as she holds Dad’s splintered head in her hands.
“I—freed us,” I whisper. And it’s true. Just like that.
I walk backward, my eyes still glued to his lifeless form.
Mom seizes me. She strokes my cheek, presses me to her.
Her voice sounds scared as she whispers to me over and over, “It’s ok, it’s ok.
” Her voice shifts over into rapid French.
I stand there unblinking as she holds me. “?a ira. Jusqu'à la mort.”
____________________
I shake my head back and forth, dispelling the vivid memory.
I’m surprised to feel dampness on my cheeks.
I’m in my car, still driving, with no real idea of where I’m going, or why.
I just know I have to keep moving forward.
I swipe the back of my hand under my eyes.
Without thinking, I seize my cell phone and dial a number I haven’t called in months.
It rings and rings before finally going to voicemail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Will Bronwin. Sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. Cheers.”
Instead of hanging up like I usually do, this time, I decide to leave a message. My voice is a snarl, and I’m aware that despite his avoidant and selfish tendencies, Will probably doesn’t deserve this. But I don’t fucking care. With Kat gone, what do I have left to lose?
“Hey dipshit,” I start, “how about you try answering your cell phone for fucking once. Or EVER.” I pause, taking a breath and thinking for a moment. I lower the register of my voice before adding, “There are people who still need you, you know. Family. Fuck.”
I hang up and fling the phone into the passenger seat. I let go of the steering wheel for a second and run my hands through my hair. Pulling the car off the side of the road, I swerve onto the wet gravel shoulder.
The blue glow from the center console clock reads 12:32am.
I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t check.
She made it clear she was done with you, asshole.
But I can’t help it. I can’t not do it. And before I know it, I’m picking up my cell and checking the front exterior camera to Pearson House. Frowning, I see that Kat’s black SUV isn’t there.
Swiping up, I log into my security feed and start to go back through the footage from the last hour or so. My thumb moves along the feed, speeding through the tape, and I finally see it: Kat departing the house, black umbrella in hand. She makes her way to her car, shuts the door, and drives off.
At eleven-thirty at night.
What the hell, Doc?