Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

My mother looks at me uncertainly, and for the first time, I see a real emotion on her face. Fear.

She’s afraid to believe that I’m serious.

“You’re not kicking me out of my own house,” she says hesitantly, her eyes searching mine. “You wouldn’t.”

I have to fight a sneer. “I wouldn’t? Why wouldn’t I? What exactly have you brought me in life except for pain? Tell me that. Tell me one good thing you’ve ever done for me, and I’ll let you stay.”

My mother stares at me, looks away at the lake, lifts her chin and stares back at me.

“I brought you into this world.”

I shake my head. “Wrong answer. You brought me into the world, true. But I didn’t ask for that. And once I was born, you didn’t do a thing for me. It was bad before Allison died, but after that, it was unbearable. Not only did you allow my father to beat the shit out of me every time he came home drunk from the bar, but you tried to make a helpless kid believe that he killed his sister. You’re the fucking monster, not me.”

My mother’s eyes turn icy and she glares at me. “You did kill your sister. You heard her, Brand. I know you heard her and you let her walk into the lake. You coul

d’ve stopped her, but you didn’t.”

An eerie calmness descends upon me and for once, I don’t feel rage as I look upon my mother.

“I was six years old. I was upstairs asleep. I realize that when bad things happen, people blame someone when they’re grieving. It’s human nature. But to focus your grief and your rage on a six-year old kid… that was unforgivable.”

My mother’s eyes water and she looks away.

“My daughter died, Brand. You could’ve saved her… if only you’d listened for her. You were supposed to watch out for her. She was your little sister.”

Her voice dwindles off and she wipes at her eyes. Nothing in me softens at her show of sadness.

“I was six years old,” I reply. “You were supposed to watch out for her. Dad forgot to lock the door, not me. All of these years, if you had to have someone to blame, you should’ve blamed him. If you really are too small of a person to realize that sometimes accidents happen. Bad things happen. And sometimes there’s simply no one to blame. You’re a small, small person.”

“My daughter died,” she whimpers.

“Your daughter did die,” I tell her coldly. “But you didn’t have to lose both your children that night. That was a decision that you made. You’re paying for that decision now. Go inside and get your things.”

She looks up in disbelief and I see it in her eyes… she thought her show of tears would sway me. She was only trying to pull my strings… once again. Just like when I was a kid and she tried to make me believe I was a monster, that I’d killed my sister, that my father was only doing what he ‘had to do’ when he was beating me.

My blood chills as I look at her and all I can feel is distaste. For my own mother. Even worse, I see the exact same emotion in her eyes as she stares back at me.

She hates me and it is apparent.

“Go.” I repeat. My voice is like ice.

She spins around and stalks away. I watch her disappear into the house, I watch the old peeling door slam behind her, I watch how the windows of the house seem to mock me, like large eyes that watched my father beat me on the beach, time and time again. This house is a tomb of bad memories. And I don’t think I can look at it any longer. In fact, I don’t even want it to exist.

I want all of it to just go away.

I turn to Nora.

“Could you do me a huge favor? Could you run down to the cottage and get the gas can from the garage and a box of matches?”

Nora stares at me, paralyzed.

“Please?” I prod.

She nods, confusion in her eyes, but she doesn’t question me. She just takes off running down the beach barefoot. I watch her for a minute, then turn to the attorney.

“The house is mine now, correct?”

Todd nods. “Yes. Everything in it. And the woodshop and the garage in town. And the assets from the business. Everything.”