I pop my head into the kitchen. “Who fights for a living?”
Trix awkwardly pulls a box of cold pizza from the fridge while trying to keep her body covered with the blanket. “UFL guy. He’s huge, rides a dirt bike . . .”
My heart speeds and my head gets light.
“Covered in tattoos.” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, his band plays at your bar.”
“Rex?”
They both turn toward me at the same time.
“You know the fruit-tart?” Hatch crosses the room with a look in his eye that I see frequently when I look in the mirror. He wants vengeance.
I square off with him. “Fruit-tart? He beat your ass.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“If I did, I’d never tell you. Wouldn’t want to be an accessory to your murder.”
He smiles, or at least it looks as if it’s supposed to be a smile, but the way his upper lip curls back from his teeth looks more like a snarl. “Don’t worry, Snow White. I won’t hurt your boy. I’ll leave him breathing.”
“He’s not my boy.” He’s my brother! “And don’t call me that.”
We stare off for a few seconds before Trix tugs on his arm. “Come on, Grumpy. Time for you to get home. I’m sure Sneezy and Doc are worried sick about you.”
He yanks his arm out of her hold. “I’ll find him. We’ve got some unfinished business. Had a few too many beers last night, so he got the jump.” Trix drags him down the hallway toward her room. He points at me over her head. “That shit won’t happen again.”
I almost want to laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. Rex is six feet of pure muscle. He’d render Hatch unconscious before he even realized what happened. He’d have to be an idiot to go after Rex.
Knowing all that, my stomach still churns with anxiety. I hate the idea that someone is out for him. If they only knew what he’s been through . . .?
From what I can tell he’s managed to keep his past a secret. I don’t blame him. But Rex doesn’t know everything, not the most important thing. If I can just get close enough to him to form a friendship, then I can fill him in on the part of his past he doesn’t know. The one thing that could change everything.
It’d give him someone to blame for what he’s been through—everything he endured at the hands of monsters—what his tiny body was put through and the unimaginable horrors he lived. I break out in a sweat. The walls start to close in and my skin feels too tight.
Locked away. Helpless.
I race to my room and lock the door behind me. Claustrophobia knocks against my nerves. My eyes scan the windows. Open. Always open.
I take a deep breath of the fresh air and remind myself he’s free. I’m free. I drop to all fours near my bed and swipe my hand beneath it, reaching for the box.
The rusted metal scrapes against my palms. I climb up on my bed, cross-legged, and flip back the lid.
Inside are scraps of yellowed paper covered in the frantic handwriting of a boy—a boy who endured things that horror stories are made from—evidence of an existence far worse than anything hell could threaten.
I had the power to stop it.
But I didn’t.
My eyes move over each word for what feels like the thousandth time. I memorize his handwriting, relive his story, and reignite my purpose.
I can give him what he never had.
Answers.
I stare unseeing as flashes of my nightmares play out behind my eyes: the blood, so much blood; the bright blue of his eyes imploring mine; the grunted words that I’ll never forget.
The box. Our secret.
My hands, tiny and insignificant, shook for hours after they loaded him into the ambulance and sped off. The sirens blared in my head long after they took him away. I still see it all, hear it in my nightmares.
Bile crawls up my throat and my body revolts against the images. I slam closed the box and shove it under my bed. The shadows creep in, reminding me that I’m walking the edge of my sanity.
I snag my iPod off my bedside table and pop on my ear buds. With tremors wracking my fingers, I scroll through a list of songs and hit play. It’s a bootleg recording, crackly and distorted, but it doesn’t matter. The music soothes and his voice chases away the dark.
Maybe after a few hours of sleep, I’ll go see him. He never knows I’m there, but it’s enough to set my eyes on him, remind myself that he’s alive.
Seeing him never fails to do the job, clear away the cobwebs from the life I’m forced to live, and remind me of the one I promised to redeem.
Two
Black like my soul and my memories
A void beyond consciousness
Red like the way that they treated me
Now a man left to clean up the mess
--Ataxia
Rex