“You can go home. You don’t have to stay here for me. This…this is my life, Kens. And you don’t have to be here for this.” His hold on my fingers is rough, but purposeful, and he’s holding his breath, his nostrils flaring slightly while his pupils dial in on mine, begging me to leave. He thinks he’s saving me.
“I’d like to stay,” I say quietly, my eyes never flinching or leaving his. I want to run, my stomach sinking when I speak, but I can’t leave him. I won’t.
Owen swallows, taking a sharp breath in through his nose, then turns his attention back to the next room, his hand still linked with mine as he leads me into an older-looking room with family photos covering the wall. The frames are wooden and tattered, and the pictures of Andrew, Owen, and James seem to span most of their youth—stopping at what I’d guess to be four or five years ago. The back wall is a dark-wood paneling, and the television is propped on top of a coffee table that’s pushed against the wall next to the bricked fireplace.
As old and dark as everything in this room seems, it’s still clean, and it still feels like a home. James is sitting on a large orange sofa with wooden arms, his legs propped up on another table that’s covered in magazines, keys, a wallet, and a gun.
There’s a gun.
On the center of the table, an inch away from James’s foot, there’s a gun. It’s black, and slick, and it looks like something a cop should be carrying. My body is reacting, a slow sweat building at the base of my neck, dripping deliberately down my sides, under my arms, my heart thumping wildly.
“Dude, put that away. Mom doesn’t need to see that,” Owen says, gesturing to the weapon. James studies him for a few seconds, his finger holding the tip of a toothpick that he’s chewed into a bend, the other side locked in his mouth, mashed between his back teeth. Owen leans forward, his hand reaching for the gun, about to grab it, when James beats him to it, clutching it, his finger at the trigger. In a blink, the gun is pointed at Owen’s neck, his brother standing in front of him, staring him down from inches away, his face threatening.
My breath. Is gone.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing happens. My pulse is racing, and I’m looking around the room for someone, anyone. We’re alone, Owen’s mom just a room away.
She’s only a room away! I’m trying to move my feet, to do something—anything—but I only end up with my back against the wall.
James’s lips curve into a smile, and a slow, insane laugh starts to brew in his chest until it eventually explodes from his mouth. He cocks the gun back, away from Owen, and then tosses it back on the table, as if it were a remote.
“You’re sick, and you need to leave,” Owen says, his stance never once wavering—the gun having absolutely no effect on him, nor the fact that it was just pointed at his throat.
“Come on,” Owen says, grabbing my hand and pulling me back through the house, through his front door, and down his porch steps. My body is shaking by the time we get outside, and I start to cry, cupping my mouth with my hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds.
“Shhhhhh, it’s okay,” Owen says, pulling me into his chest quickly, his hands wrapping around my head, his lips finding my bare skin along my face, his voice working to soothe me. “He’s high. He’s always high. And he needs money. That’s why he’s here. I’m so sorry you had to see that. My mom, she isn’t supposed to let him in. But she’s weaker than I am. That’s why he came now. He knew I was gone.”
“Owen, you have to do something. Call the police, something,” I say, my suggestion met with a roar of laughter.
“Kens, that’s a really good thought. But the cops don’t come to my house when I call. They come for other people. The Harpers? They sort of hope we kill each other off,” he says, and I shake my head in protest the entire time.
“No, they would come. Owen, let them help you,” I start, but he pulls me to him tightly again.
“They don’t come for things like this. And even if they did…” he says, pulling back to look in my eyes, “there’s nothing they could do. He’s either going to go away and get help one day, or James is going to die.”
“No,” I weep, shaking my head.
“Kens, my family’s fucked up. I told you. Me? James? Even Andrew? We’re all just these time bombs, waiting to see if we turn into our dad. James is just helping it along so he can get to the end faster.”
Owen’s words hurt. They hurt because I want more for him and Andrew, and they hurt because I know how true they are—I saw it, seconds ago. My chest is tight, and it’s becoming harder to breathe.