Then I put the torn fabric of my sleeve into her tiny hand and walk away.
Twenty Years Later—Long Island, New York
I’m one lap shy of twenty miles. But I’m nowhere close to tired. So I keep going. Hoping that if I just keep moving, maybe at some point, I can burn out my anger.
It’s been eleven years since I took up running, trying to do that exact thing.
Quiet the inner fire. Calm the inner screams.
And still, no luck.
When I finish my eightieth loop around the track, the sun is close to setting and the sky is painted in hues of green and teal. If I were the romantic type, I might have taken a moment to sit down and enjoy the sunset.
Too bad I’m not the fucking romantic type.
I walk to the end of the garden to the low brick wall that my brother Drago started building a few years ago. He always said he wanted it to be ten feet tall. Of course, he got to waist-height before he gave up and found something new to occupy his time.
I straddle the structure and look down the tiny slope that leads to the road. The house’s raised elevation gives me a decent vantage point of the surrounding houses, as well as a bird’s-eye-view of one of Long Island’s busier roads.
Drago moved us here about five years ago. At the time, it was a decent neighborhood. Familial, in a sense. But the atmosphere has since downgraded.
I blame Drago.
He blames the Irish.
My logic makes more sense, but Drago talks louder, so he inevitably thinks he’s won the argument. That’s how things always go with him.
I notice a young couple walking down the road, hand in hand. Both look around my age, possibly a year or two younger. She’s wearing tight jeans and a skintight crop top. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a hoodie with some university emblazoned across the chest.
I can’t relate to them at all. They might as well be aliens from another planet for all I care.
My eyes flicker down to their entwined hands. When was the last time someone touched me so tenderly? When was the last time someone told me they loved me?
The fact that I can’t remember should be depressing. Honestly, though, it’s not.
Mainly because I’ve blanketed myself in numbness for so long that sometimes even when I want to feel something, I can’t.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been moved around and isolated my entire life.
Maybe it’s because I was raised by a psychopath who calls himself my protector.
Or maybe it’s because I watched my father get slaughtered by a monster when I was five years old.
That’s Drago’s theory, at least. And he’s always right. Just listen to how loud he is, yeah?
“You’re dead inside, Renata,” he always says. “You’re dead inside just like me. You know why? Because that Irish fucker killed our father. He forced us to go on the run. He took away my legacy, my destiny. But don’t worry, little sister, I’m going to get it back. Mark my words—I’m going to piss on his body.”
Lots there to unpack. Am I dead inside? Drago used to tell me that endlessly when I was still a little girl. He told me that I couldn’t feel things because the O’Sullivan fucker ripped out my soul the day he killed Papa.
One day, I’d like to make up my own mind about things. But Drago’s voice is so loud that he blocks out mine.
I’ve grown up with the shadow of Kian O’Sullivan hanging over my head. He’s the ever-present ghost, the ghoul in the closet, the monster underneath my bed. I’ve been told I need to hate him my entire life.
And so I do hate him. I do.
But sometimes, the hate burns so badly that I feel like I’m going to pass out from the ache of it. And in those moments—in those weak moments—I wonder if it wouldn’t just be easier to let go of the hate once and for all.
Kian’s face floats across my vision, blurring out the young couple who are walking past the house now.