His lips flattened. “He told you about his locker?”
“In his own way, yes.” I folded my arms across my chest, concealing my clenched fists. “Forgive me, Headmaster, but isn’t discipline in your job description? Perhaps, the first step in ensuring the safety of your son would be some repercussions to the ongoing bullying?”
“Mr. Hayes, I have no idea who created that moniker nor do I know who defaced his locker door. Do you suggest I discipline the entire student body?”
“I’m suggesting the best way of offering Sebastian some security begins with protecting him. He witnessed a death, sir, and instead of garnering support from his peers, he’s had to fend off attacks.”
“If I knew who was to blame, they’d be punished. I can assure you, Mr. Hayes, I’m looking into—”
“You could begin with looking into yourself.”
His teeth ground together. “Excuse me?”
“You're his father, are you not? Have you considered that all Sebastian seeks is some comfort? Have you offered your condolences at all in the last eight months, or do you spend your time outside of counselor’s offices attempting to pry confidential information out of them? Perhaps, Headmaster Arthur, the person your son is afraid of… is you.”
His spine stiffened, and though he tried to mask it, I saw the blood leave his cheeks and drain down his neck. The rings lining his fingers flickered against the dull light when he spun them in circles around his knuckles.
He cleared his throat. “I would certainly hope my son is not afraid of me. We’ve not had the greatest of friendships, but I always thought we shared a mutual respect. Has he… insinuated something different?”
“I think we both know I’m not going to comment on what Sebastian has or has not insinuated.”
Arthur’s nostrils flared, and I nearly saw a flicker of the man that lay beneath the suit. His concern wasn’t placed with his son—that much was obvious.
One half of me wanted to pick up my pen and sort through the pieces of his brain until an agenda became clear. The other half wanted to cock my gun and blast him in the face for calling Sebastian spineless.
“The gun is always the right answer.”
Sebastian wasn’t spineless. He wassad…but even the saddest of birds sang songs, and one day my baby would open his mouth and scream loud enough to bring this whole place to the ground.
I glanced at Arthur one last time before pivoting and reaching for my door handle. “You do an awfully good job of matching your shoes to your shirt, sir, perhaps tomorrow you could try matching your words to your actions. You might have better luck connecting with your son.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
SEBASTIAN
Iwas bred from death, and maybe that’s why it seemed to follow me around—why I couldn’t ever escape it. Some children were just born with tragedy in their blood, and I think that’s probably what happened to me.
For a long time I was envious of it—death,and in some ways I think I still am. The only two people I’d ever cared about, the only people who’d ever cared aboutme, were somewhere inside of it, existing in the place that came after all the tragedy.
Wherever that place was was where I’d wanted to be.
It was interesting to think about… almostsad.I knew how to make Hell feel like home, so much so that the threat of the actual underworld didn’t frighten me. Not even a little.
The tip of my pointer finger lost color when I pressed it against the chilled granite. My movements were slow as that finger dipped in and out of the ridges, tracing the smooth letters of her name and the date she died.
It bugged me that there were no flowers here—no other tombstones or souls for her to rest with.
She was all alone.
Just like me.
The late January wind turned my tears into glaciers, slipping down my cheeks and splashing against the thin sheen of ice that decorated her tombstone.
My arms were heavy—weighted down with exhaustion and grief when I wrapped them around the granite slab and squeezed its frigid edges with everything I had.
It was the closest I’d ever come to hugging my mother.
Annie St. James died the morning of my first birthday. My father had explained her death to me in almost picturesque detail, as though it were a fictional horror drafted and reenacted for the screen. He sat on the edge of my childhood bed, cruelly and callously recounting the moments before her stroke and all the ones that came after. He described her rose-colored nails to me, and the way they twitched in his palm when he cradled her feeble hand in his.