This is my victory, even if I am not free, because my time here isn’t over. Not by a long shot.It’s the last passage in the book, even though about a third of it is still empty pages.
I put the notebook down and rub my face. I feel a little sick. I wonder if I could do that. If I could cut off Sebastian’s finger. If I could hurt him.
I don’t think I could.
I don’t want to.
Were the Scafoni men of generations past crueler than those of today? Brother pitted against brother, that’s what this does. The fact that the right of one brother can be challenged by another, that alone sets the stage for a family to turn on itself.
If I think about Lucinda and what she did to Sebastian, what Sebastian did to Ethan, it’s brutal. Then there’s the competition between Gregory and Sebastian.
This family is sick.
They’re rotten and rotting from the inside.
And I don’t understand why I am not repelled by them. Repulsed by them.
Why I’m drawn to them.
Instead of hiding the book back in the floorboards, I tuck it between the mattress and the box spring and lay down. I’m tired. Between last night’s events and this, I’m exhausted.
I lie on my side for a while just watching the breeze softly blow the curtains. And when I close my eyes, I dream. I dream of my Aunt Helena, except I’m not sure if it’s her or me. I’m seeing through her eyes, opening the door between my room and Sebastian’s.
Gregory doesn’t see me when I walk in to watch him hold a pillow over Sebastian’s face.
He doesn’t hear me when I step closer. There’s no sound, in fact, not even when he pulls the pillow away and I see it’s not Sebastian at all, but someone else, another man who resembles them.
Cain?
I’m confused as I watch Gregory leave. And I have to force my unwilling legs to carry me closer, closer.
I feel my mouth stretch into a wide grin but I’m sick. I feel sick.
The skin of my hand, when it reaches for the nightstand drawer is like parchment, spotted and old, the yellowing nails bitten down and jagged.
I open the drawer, and inside is my pocket knife. I take it out but it’s like I’m resisting myself, like my arm is struggling against itself, but the pull is too great and I’m too weak and when the other hand, this one mine, takes up the dead man’s hand and brings it to the nightstand, tears drop on that dead hand, even as the fingers are splayed out.
The switchblade is opened, and I turn away from it, turn to the man on the bed and when I see him, when I see Sebastian, I scream.
I scream and scream and scream until I’m startled awake, jolted upright in my own bed, the room dark, pitch black. The cool breeze of earlier now chilling, freezing.
I switch on the lamp and rub my face.
It was a dream. Just a dream.11Sebastian“Mind telling me what the fuck last night was about?”
I push another log into the fireplace before turning to answer my brother. Fall is fast approaching, and I like these cooler temperatures.
I straighten, turn to him. I take my time looking at him. I’ve known Gregory since he was a baby. Always liked him better than Ethan but that’s probably because Lucinda liked him about a hair more than she did me.
But I don’t know my brother.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I say, turning, pouring myself a whiskey.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Greg asks when I hold up the bottle, asking if he wants one.
“Never enough, brother. Am I pouring for you or not?”
“Yeah.”
I hand him his glass and we stand drinking, eyes locked, tension thick enough to slice.
“Last night was me making sure you know she’s mine.”
“You going to try to take me out of the picture too? Like you did Ethan?”
I hear the accusation underneath the last part of that remark and I feel my eyes narrow.
I’ve never told anyone the specifics of what happened with Ethan. No one knows but Helena. No one saw. Lucinda accused me, but there was no evidence.
But Gregory? He’s never asked.
And I know for as silent as he is, he sees everything. Always has.
I turn to the fire, sip my drink. “You know what would have happened if I handed her over to him.”
“I’m not saying you did the wrong thing, but I’m not Ethan. Or Lucinda. And you’re wrong.” He sits down at his place at the table. “I don’t want her,” he finishes. “Not like you think.”
“I see how you look at her,” I say, coming toward the table.
He shifts his gaze to me as I take my seat. “Yeah, well, when you fuck her in front of me, how do you want me to look at her? I’m human, Sebastian. I’m a man. Besides, we made an agreement. And I’m not walking away next time.”