Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I nodded a bit stiffly at that, my eyes moving over further still to the chair where Erica - Ronny - had been, upturned now, likely while she had still been on it. There was blood there too. Less than there had been by me, but more than there had been by Mikey.
My stomach heaved hard when I realized one long trail of it wasn't a drag mark; it was a claw mark. She had clawed at the floor while he brutalized her. She had tried to get away.
Fruitlessly.
And I had just been fucking unconscious on the floor a couple feet away, fucking useless.
Useless.
"Son, this isn't good. How about you collect the things you need?" he suggested, forcibly pushing me toward the hall.
Not given much of an option, that was what I did. I picked out Erica's - Ronny's - favorite dress, peach and filmy, something that hugged her curves, but was chaste enough for Sunday mass. I found her mother's crucifix and her grandmother's wedding picture.
Then I went into Mikey's room, grabbing one of his sets of clothes - black basketball pants and a black and white henley - he refused to wear anything else.
On my way back toward the doorway where the detective was standing, it caught my eye.
The book.
Right at the edge of the bed.
Waiting for me to read it to him that night.
I snatched it, shoving it down in the box, not able to even have it in my hands for another second.
"That's it," I told him as I passed, moving outside before the smell of copper in the house made me puke.
I drove back to my place, not bothering to be quiet, dropping the shit on the counter, making Cy shoot up on the couch, disoriented, but quickly taking things in.
"You left?" It was a question, and maybe a bit of an accusation.
"Had shit to get," I said, leaving it there, going back into my room, and fucking sleeping.
For a day and a half straight, only getting up when Wasp came in and kicked the bed hard enough to make it jump.
"The fuck..."
"Get up," she demanded, raising her chin when my angry eyes shot to her.
"Fuck off, Wasp."
"Get. Up," she said again, this time grabbing the blankets, and ripping them off me.
"Get out of my room. Go to fucking school."
"It's Saturday," she informed me. "And you need to get up, take a shower, and eat. Mom's tried to get you up. Cy's tried. I'm not here to try."
Being as close to our father as she had been, having spent as much time with him at the compound as she had, she had never cowered away from growling men. She never got intimidated.
And Wasp always got what she wanted, one way or another.
"Just go, Wasp," I tried, letting the anger drop, allowing the pain to filter in, not giving a shit if that was low.
"I get it. You're depressed. You should be depressed. But you need to get up. You need to function."
"You don't know what I need."
"You know what, fine. Be a martyr. Be that fucking guy. Go ahead. But I won't stick around to watch it."
With that, she stormed out, her light hair swinging behind her, slamming my door hard, making the food-deprived headache slam through my skull, forcing me to let out a groan.
She was right.
I was martyring myself.
After willing my body for a few minutes to cooperate, I got up off the bed, grabbed a change of clothes, and made my way out into the hall to head to the bathroom.
To find Wasp sitting on the couch, the tiniest hint of a smile pulling at her lips.
World, 0. Wasp, 500,000,000.
After the shower, I choked down food and coffee. I called back the funeral home to hear them give me the lowdown for the following day.
The wake.
With just us.
Just me and my family.
And then the funeral.
As if death wasn't bad enough. There had to be theatrics involved.
The detective had sent over the game for Mikey.
The flowers were in.
Everything was set.
"We'll be there for you," my mother told me after I hung up the phone. "You're not alone."
Physically, no.
I wasn't alone.
In fact, I wouldn't be left alone for years.
But mentally, emotionally, I was.
I was completely and utterly fucking alone in the world.
No one understood what this was like.
No one could even pretend to try.
The next day, I got into the suit Cy had bought me.
I went into my room and got it, tucked it into my pocket, then I let them drive me to the church in stony silence, everyone in staid black, everyone with sad eyes.
The church was massive, meant to be filled with worshippers - or grievers, in some cases, both.
But it was just the four of us.
A choir.
A preacher.
And two caskets.
I couldn't bring myself to go up.
Not right away like you're supposed to anyway.