Tortured Souls (Rebels of Sandland 2)

“It’s the saddest day of their lives. Heart-breaking.”

“No one should ever have to bury their own child.”

We kept our heads down, sheltering from the drizzling rain that misted around us on our slow walk through the gothic darkness of St. Anne’s church gates. Without glancing up, we moved past the old women who were gathered at the old wooden doorway, gossiping over my brother’s death like a gaggle of fish wives.

This was a day out for them.

An event to chat about over their piss-coloured weak cups of tea and stale biscuits.

A reason to get out, and if they were lucky, maybe score a bit of buffet food to save them making their own dinner later on. They didn’t realise their throwaway comments meant something to us.

Yes, it was the saddest day of our lives. They didn’t need to state that fact. We knew. We felt it with every sharp, searing pain that punched us in the guts at the memory. The thrum of adrenaline drowning our veins with unspeakable sorrow and dread. And the twisted, knotting feeling strangling our lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Putting one foot in front of the other was enough for today. It was all my family was capable of. Get through the day and get out the other end.

This was the worst day of our lives, and my mum and dad shouldn’t be burying my twin brother, Brodie, at such a young age. He was only twenty-three. He had his whole life ahead of him. And yet here we were, saying a goodbye we never wanted to utter. And it was all down to one man.

Brandon Mathers.

The devil himself would’ve been more welcome in the town of Sandland than he ever would.

He’d killed my brother in cold blood. Snuffed him out like the scum of the Earth, brain-dead assassin he was. Brandon Mathers murdered my twin brother, and like a spineless piece of shit, he ran. Hid underground to avoid facing the justice Brodie deserved. No parent should have to lose a child in such a brutal way, but after what we’d been through the past few weeks, I’d made it my life’s mission to ensure Brandon Mathers’ family faced the same heartache we did.

He didn’t deserve to live.

He didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of us.

I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be there when he took his last breath, so I could tell him what a low-life shit-bag he really was. Remind him there was a place reserved for him in hell, courtesy of the Yates family.

We walked into the cold, eerie church, with its stomach-churning scent of mothballs and furniture polish, and made our way to the pews at the front. Our heels clicked on the tiled floors, making every guest turn and look our way, giving us sympathetic smiles. They were thanking their lucky stars they weren’t in the position we were in. Counting their blessings and pitying ours.

I was flanked by my mum and dad, as if they were trying to protect me from the sorrow that shrouded us; like a thick cloth of smoke that choked all three of us with the weight of carrying such a burden. A weight we never thought we’d ever be free of. They put their arms around me and the three of us sat as a unit, ready to pay our respects to Brodie, but blocking out the rest of the congregation. We weren’t here for them. We had no interest in anyone else. We’d always been a close-knit family, and today was no different. We’d get through this together.

“You’re doing well, angel. We’re so proud of you.” Dad kissed me on the top of my head and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Brodie is here, you know. He’ll never leave us.”

I nodded, unable to form any words through the tight ball of pain bunched in my throat. I knew Mum and Dad were going through their own hell. Brodie was their baby boy; the son they worshipped. The one who made us all laugh and would do anything for anybody. But for me, the grief was unbearable.

He was my twin.

Even as kids we felt each other’s sadness, bore each other’s pain. If Brodie fell over and scraped his knee, I was the one who cried. On that night, when we lost him, I felt it. I felt the blinding shock of pain in my head as he went down, like white lightning blurring my vision and making me feel nauseous and dizzy. I almost threw up, but that bond we had, it kept me focused on him.

I blinked past the tears that welled up in my eyes. Dwelling on that night wouldn’t help me now. It’d only make me angrier, and I didn’t want to give any more headspace to those negative thoughts. Today was Brodie’s day. A day to remember everything wonderful about him. He was all I wanted to think about.

The church organs started to groan out their morose, morbid notes, and we heard the murmurs, sobs, and collective sigh from the congregation as Brodie’s casket was carried down the aisle. I couldn’t turn around and look. The only aisle I’d ever wanted to see my brother go down was the one on his wedding day, not this. Never this. I kept my head facing forward and focused on the decrepit, worn pulpit and the dark wooden altar, anything but the swell of grief I was drowning in. But everywhere I looked, I felt death. Even the church looked like it was decaying around us.

My parents tensed beside me, and when I saw Brodie’s coffin being laid onto the plinth beside where we stood, I cracked, feeling like a freshly healed wound had been savagely ripped open again.

Would it ever heal?

I doubted it.

It felt like my life from this moment on would always be played out in a fog of misery and regret, hurt and pain.

My heart lurched, and I shook with the effort of trying not to break completely. My tears fell freely now.

Why did life have to be so cruel?

He didn’t deserve this.

None of us did.

Jensen Lockwood, his younger brother, Chase, and a few of Brodie’s other friends had carried the coffin. I was beyond grateful for them today. They’d made it easier for my dad to stay with us and look after his girls, a term of endearment he’d used for the first time this morning. He didn’t have his boy anymore.

If I was completely honest with myself, I did harbour some feelings of resentment towards Jensen for what happened to Brodie. He could have stopped it, but he didn’t. However, since everything that had happened, he’d stepped up when we’d needed him, and I couldn’t deny we owed him for that.

The service went by in a blur of emotions. I somehow managed to stand with the help of my parents to sing the hymns. Blinking through the tears that welled in my eyes, I stumbled through each verse, even though I could barely read the words on the order of service. When the vicar spoke about Brodie, reminiscing over his short life, I stayed locked up in my head, thinking about the Brodie I knew and the memories that were mine alone. No one could take those away.

When the service was over, I felt exhausted and mentally drained. Numb to what was happening around me but crippled by the pain of my reality. I needed to get out and get some fresh air.

Brodie was being buried in the graveyard of the church, so the ordeal wasn’t finished yet, but we’d got through this first part. That was something.

We stood first and followed the vicar as he led us through a side door. He was wittering away to my father about the impressive turnout, but I zoned him out. The rest of the congregation followed, and we all headed to where the grave was situated, pre-dug and covered with a cloth that lay around the hole to try and make it look less harrowing. God forbid we should see it for what it was, a hole in the dirt that we were about to lower my brother’s body into. It didn’t matter how much you dressed it up, that’s what it was.

I took my place at the edge of the grave. Despite staring at the ground for the majority of the day, I found it hard to look there now. So, tentatively, I lifted my head, feeling the soft wet drizzle of the English rain mist over my face. Seemed like the weather mirrored the mood of the day. It was sombre, gloomy, and looked like the heavens were about to open at any minute to drench us to the bone. The perfect day for a funeral.

I scanned the faces coming out of the church; Jensen, Chase, a few aunts and uncles that we only ever saw at Christmas, and then I went cold. Zak Atwood, Finn Knowles, and Ryan Hardy strolled out like they belonged there. Ryan was holding hands with Danny Winters’ little sister, Emily, and they all wore the same fake, sorrowful expression on their faces. I wanted to march over to them and tell them to leave.

Why had they come?

To gloat?

The reason we were here at all was because their friend had murdered my brother.

I gritted my teeth, taking deep, fortifying breaths as I realised they had to know where Brandon was hiding. They were probably the ones protecting him. Coming to give a fake show of support and then heading back to Mathers to tell him all about it. Let him wallow in the pride he felt at taking another man’s life. The thought sickened me.

They weren’t welcome, and I wanted to tell them to leave, but when my mum whispered, “Are you okay, Harper?” into my ear, I snapped my head away from them. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how they got to me, or of telling Brandon how truly broken I was.

“I need this bit over with, Mum.” I kept my breathing deep and steady, needing that panting rhythm to keep me sane. “This is the part I’ve been dreading.”

The pallbearers positioned Brodie’s coffin over the grave and the vicar said his final words. Dad pulled me into him as they lowered Brodie’s body into the ground, and Mum came behind us so we could shelter from the hurt together.

People around us snivelled and cried into their tissues. I wanted to tell them to shut the hell up. What were they bawling over? Tomorrow, they’d go on with their lives as if nothing had ever happened. It might’ve been a bad day for them, but it was a bad fucking life for us. Their fake tears and weak support were no help. If anything, it drove me more insane, thinking this day was all about their grief and their feelings. We barely saw most of them from one year to the next. This had zero impact on their lives, and they needed to stop acting like it did.

Then came the ashes to ashes part, and the vicar led the tradition of throwing a handful of dirt onto the casket below. I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. Why would I want to throw mud down to say goodbye to someone so precious? Instead, I took a white rose from the flower arrangement I’d had made in the colours of Brodie’s favourite football team, spelling out ‘brother’, and threw that down.

“He’s always with you, Harper, love.” Dad repeated his sentiment from earlier, and I wiped away the deluge of tears that drenched my face and soaked through to my collar.