Make You Beg (Hide & Seek Duet)

Prologue

My brother’s corpse was dancing in flames.

I can’t imagine what he felt as his skin darkened, turning the color of charcoal, as he rushed from one corner of the room to the other, trapped in a nightmare with nowhere to go.

I can’t recall exactly how it happened, how the fire broke out. It happened so fast.

But I do know it’s my fault.

I watched, paralyzed—no—captivated, as he and his new girlfriend fought for their lives.

Help us, Kayden.

The door was blocked. There was no way to save them. I may be a bit bigger than he was, with my wide arms and muscles from all the hockey practice, but I don’t have superpowers.

I’m not a hero at all.

The dead look in his blue eyes as he fell to the ground will be an image that haunts me forever—his body spasming, his black hair, messy and slick, lighting up like candles.

I watched myself die, his image the split one of mine.

Twins. They say twins feel everything the other feels—but I didn’t feel anything at all.

Now, my posture is composed, with fists clenched at my sides, as I stand by the house where I’ve lived for the past few years, watching it blaze. My life, as I know it, is about to take a new direction.

Am I a psycho for standing here, calm as it all vanishes into ashes? The flames soothing my heavy heart?

It’s the second time this has happened. Not in the same way, the accidents are different. Yet, my brother isn’t the first one we’ve lost. When I was ten, it was my mom.

I never got to say goodbye. I was at school when her body was taken away.

My family’s cursed. There’s no other explanation.

I hold back the whimper dying to escape my throat. My chest churns with overflowing emotions, wanting to burst like lava from a volcano. It’s not sadness caught inside me, it’s frustration.

I’m mad—was mad—at him, when he got caught in the fire. And part of me is relieved he’s gone.

We don’t have to compete anymore.

What a fucking horrible human being I am. Sick. Fucking sick.

Who watches their own family being carried away in a body bag and channels thoughts like these?

Fucking relief? There’s something wrong with my brain.

I always thought I’d feel different, stronger about death. This hollow inside catches me by surprise.

My lack of emotion and pain.

It’s as if it were me there in the middle of that fire, but at the same time, it wasn’t. I was a mere spectator, watching it unfold.

The sirens from the ambulances in the background cause my mind to spiral. I want to run, escape this place, this moment.

I shake my head and ignore my surroundings. Pretend none of it happened.

Which is exactly what my dad will tell me to do. Of that, I’m sure.

My twin brother’s dead, carried out now in a body bag. The other victim is unconscious and severely burned. The wounds on her legs and arms look bad. The paramedics wheel her out on a stretcher, while a bald, chubby, brown-bearded police officer approaches me.

My turn to talk.

Correction—to lie.

It depends on my father. He’s the one giving out orders time and time again.

I’m a marionette hanging by the threads on his fingers.

“Kayden A’gosto?” the police officer asks.

“Yes?”

Given I was the only one who came out unscathed from the incident, I’m sure he’s got a lot to ask me.

“I’m Officer McNuty,” he says. “You were inside the house when the fire broke out?”

“That’s right.” There’s no point in hiding it.

“And you were the one to phone 911?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

Before I can reply, my father materializes out of the shadowy night, placing a palm on the officer’s shoulder from behind. His dark hair with sprinkles of gray is styled to the back, and he’s wearing his usual suit and tie, fresh from work. The furrow between his eyebrows hints at what’s to come.

The officer turns to him.

“I’m Kayden’s father, Lucas A’gosto. I came as fast as I could.”

The officer clears his throat. “I’m very sorry for your loss, sir. Your other son—”

“I-I’ve been told over the phone.” He runs a hand over his jaw. “Thank you.” He pauses, composing himself. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to talk to Kayden yet. I’ve got no problem with you asking him any questions, but it’s a given that I’ll need to be present, as he’s a minor.”

“Of course.”

“Alright, then. I need to have a word with him first. You don’t need to wait here. We’ll meet you back at the station.”

“Sir, that’s not how it works.”

My dad swings a hand, dismissing the officer, a threat lingering in his eyes.

He isn’t asking, he’s letting Officer McNuty know. My father doesn’t deal well with disobedience.

The officer can’t deny him. There’s an aura about my father that’s threatening, dangerous even. He has connections all over town. I’m sure he knows someone at the station, too.

“I’ll see you there.” Officer McNuty backs away, nodding at us before gathering with his colleagues.

We stand at a corner of the pavement as more firefighters rush into the flaming house.

I don’t know if they’re going to search it. Given the nature of the incident and my call, this was a mere accident, not a crime scene. But you never know with the police.

“Dad, I—”

I want to explain. To tell him what happened. To ask for advice.

“Let’s go.” He cuts me off and ushers me to the car.

“You’re not going to say anything. You hear me?

” He grabs me by the collar of my jersey once we’re by the car.

“Keep your mouth shut. I have no fucking idea what happened, and you don’t know anything, either.

” He’s moved his hand to my shoulder, digging his fingers in and putting pressure on my bones.

“So, I’ll do the talking. Now, get in the car. ”

I fill in the rest of the conversation in my head.

The pain lingering on my shoulder blades from his fingers making me numb.

No son of mine will get in trouble with the police for a fucking lame lie.

Lying is for the weak, not real men. We don’t lie.

We know how to twist the truth to our advantage. How to change the narrative to suit us.

He’d probably say something like that. Bullshit.

We’re not con men. Monsters? That’s a different story.

“What are you looking so shocked about?”

I don’t notice I’m disassociating, looking into oblivion until he says so.

“Don’t tell me you have PTSD or some shit like that now.” He snaps his fingers in my face, yanking the passenger door open. “Get the fuck in.”

The worst part isn’t that he talks to me like I’m the filthiest garbage in the whole damn world, no.

It’s the fact that his other son just got sent to the morgue in a body bag, and he didn’t even blink an eye.

He thanked the officer for his condolences and asked no questions.

Diverted the topic. He doesn’t give a damn.

Like with Mom.

My father may not have killed my brother, but he might as well have.

And I can’t say that I’m surprised I’m as fucked up as he is.

***

As soon as I’m cleared of all suspicion the next day, my father arranges for us to move away to another town. There are no memorial services, no apologies, no goodbyes. No one else asks us anything. There’s no therapy for me, no discussions, no mourning. Not a fucking single ‘are you okay?’

Not in our family.

There was one talk telling me not to mention my brother or the incident at all. To forget it and move on.

If he catches me crying, it won’t end well. Good thing I’m all out of tears. I have been for years. Living under the same roof as him, used to having everything I do turned against me. The disappointment of the family, the disgrace.

You’re going to listen to me, he says to me. We’re going to be great.

That’s what my father always does. We’re always running away from our problems as if wherever we go, they won’t follow.

I wish it was as simple as that.

I wish I had some of whatever he’s having, so I could turn it all off—the thoughts, the guilt, the pain, the anger. The emotions swimming through my veins.

It was the same with Mom. Except we did have a funeral for her, a very small one. And then, we went away. We left our school, our friends, and the neighbors we grew up with.

We moved away a few more times throughout middle school. Whenever something didn’t go my father’s way, or he didn’t like someone or something in the town. Not giving a shit who got hurt along the way.

I’m shocked we lasted this long in Wildhope. Three years is a long time for someone like my dad. In the six years since we’ve lost Mom, we’ve moved not shy of ten times.

It’s no wonder I’ve never felt at home anywhere I go.

So, once again, I’m leaving it all behind. I don’t even get to say goodbye to my friends on the hockey team.

Fuck that.

Now, I’m standing in front of our new place. It’s a tall, two-story Victorian with gray brick walls, long glass windows, and a black rooftop. White flowers are perched along the entrance, and a driveway big enough to build another room on it. I walk in with one suitcase that sums up my whole life.

“Pick a room. Welcome to your new life,” my father says.

Thorned Crowne, New Jersey.

Small enough to go under the radar.

I head to the second floor. I could see from outside there’s an attic, and I like the idea of that. I can do whatever the fuck I want there.

My father will never come up.

The room is dark and dusty. I’m pretty sure spiders have a nest here somewhere.

“This one,” I shout, claiming it as mine.

After all, it doesn’t matter which room I pick—this, too, won’t last.