Emma

The house is quiet when I walk in. Too quiet. Bastain’s car is in the garage. Why isn’t he watching football? He always has the game on. Normally Saturday afternoons are a combination of curse words and snack breaks. It’s never quiet like this. I have a bad feeling about it. An eerie sensation creeps up my spine, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. Fear and worry begin to fester deep in the pit of my stomach.

I walk through the kitchen, and as soon as I round the island and head toward the living room I see him. He’s sitting in the recliner, staring into the distance. There’s something on his lap and something else beneath his hand that lies on the armrest. His eyes meet mine when I enter the room. They’re bright red, like he’s been crying. He picks up the object off his right thigh and tosses it across the room in my direction. My heart stops. It’s my journal.

“Is this how you really feel about me?” he shouts, though his voice is hoarse from crying.

No!

Yes...

I don’t know.

So many thoughts and emotions are swarming through my head right now, I can’t keep up. I’m angry that he invaded my privacy. I’m devastated that I’ve hurt him. I’m worried that he’s so upset. And I’m afraid of what he might do. I want to climb on his lap and hold his head against my chest and tell him I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean any of it. But I did. I meant all of it. And we can’t keep putting bandaids on open wounds. It’s time to face the truth, no matter how cold it might be.

I walk toward him, forcing one foot in front of the other. I don’t even glance down at the notebook as I step over it. I don’t ask how he found it. At this point, that’s irrelevant. I just need to know how we move forward from here. I take a deep breath and swallow the lump in my throat. I’m surprised at my own strength and the fact that I haven’t shed a single tear so far. Another step forward. He just sits and watches. Unmoved.

Then I see it. A gun. That’s what he’s holding beneath his palm. A handgun.

Fight or flight instincts kick in and I start to panic. The sound of my own pulse throbs in my ear. Thump thump. Thump thump. Faster and faster until it feels like I might explode. I clench my fists to find my palms sweaty. His eyes follow mine to the arm of the chair where the weapon rests. When he looks up again, he’s starting to smile. Like my fear satisfies him. Think, Emma, think. He’s in a dark, dark place. Anger and pain brought him there. I need to bring him back.

“It will take more than a few paragraphs scribbled in a notebook to describe how I feel about you, Bastain.” Come back to me. Let me talk to you. Please. God, tell me I haven’t lost him.

He tightens his fist around the handle of the gun. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Stay calm. Be strong. He’s stuck in the darkness. Be the light that guides him out. We’ve been here before. After the accident, Bastain was stuck in this same cloud of despair. He wanted to give up, to give in, to end it all. That’s what brought me to him to begin with. I wanted to save him from himself. There was no way I was letting anything happen to him then, and there’s no way I’m letting it happen now.

I’m close to him now, close enough to climb onto his lap and cup his face in my hands. I tilt his jaw, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His pupils are dark and barely visible. “You’re not that guy, babe. You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t want to hurt yourself. This isn’t you.”

He clenches the gun again, and I silently pray his finger stays steady and away from the trigger.

“Maybe I am that guy. Maybe I’m just like my father.”

“No. You’re stronger than your father. You’re different. You’re just lost right now. But we’re gonna find you. We’re gonna bring you back. You’ll see. It’ll be just like it was- me and you. I’m here. I’m going to help you.” Days like this are exactly the reason I can’t leave.

He lifts his hand, bringing the gun with it, and holds the steel barrel against his temple. No. Please, God. With his face still cradled in my hands, I plead with him with my eyes. Tears spill from beneath my lashes as I clench them shut while I search for the right words to say. I’m smothered in the memory of this exact moment five years ago when he was so desperate to take his own life. The pain of knowing I’ve done this to him wraps around me like a vice, tightening my chest until I can hardly breathe. I bring my forehead to rest on his. My nose lightly brushes against his, staining his face with my tears as they fall. I couldn’t live with myself if he hurt himself because of me. No, if he’s doing this, he’s not doing it alone.

Gatsby whines from somewhere in the background. Bastain has stopped breathing. I no longer feel his warm breath on my face. My eyes pop open to search his. I see nothing. No anger, no love, no hope. I only see tiny black pupils lost in a sea of dark blue. I lift my head and he moves the gun from his temple to mine. He exhales slowly, sending a chill through my veins.

“You’re all I have left, Em. I’m alone without you.”

Breathe. Inhale, Exhale. He’s hurt. He’s angry. But, he’s not going to shoot me. I have to believe that. Be strong. Be brave. I did this to him. I took his family. He’s alone because I made it so. Now, I have to make it right. The realist in me is shouting, “Emma, there is a mentally unstable man pointing a gun at your head. Think. What would Liam Neeson do? Go for the throat.” But the hopeful part of me is telling me the good guy is still in there somewhere. I just have to find him and bring him back.

“I can’t let you leave,” he says, his voice steady yet uncertain.

I stay completely still, waiting for him to make the next move. I’m terrified, but I can’t let it show. He’s in control here. He needs to know that. He also needs more help than I can give. I should have seen this coming. I should have made him talk to Dr. Owen a long time ago. I’m not Liam Neeson. I’m not even Michelangelo from the Ninja Turtles. I don’t know the first thing about self-defense or how to talk someone out of pointing a gun at your head. So, as usual, I go with the hopeful me. Maybe I can reach him. Maybe.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” My apology doesn’t just cover the journal. Knowing I’ve caused him so much pain, that I’ve made him this man- kills me inside.

“Do you even know how it feels?”

Pain? Yes. I live through the pain of my mistakes every single day. He glides the gun from my temple, tracing it down the side of my face and along my jawline, letting the hard metal linger against my flesh. I can finally breathe again. Just put the gun down, baby. We can talk about it. We can start to heal. Let. me. help. you.

“Do you remember that night, Em?” Every day for the past five years. I don’t answer. The question was rhetorical anyway. He knows I remember. He’s seen the effects of the nightmares. “I lost everything, everyone I cared about, in the blink of an eye. Now, I want you to know what it feels like to lose.”

To lose? To lose what? Him? My life? My sanity? I try to think of the right thing to say, but words fail me. This is it. He’s gone off the deep end. With a concrete block tied around his ankles. There’s no coming back. This isn’t verbal abuse, or a covert physical assault. That stuff was just the prelude. This moment, the one he’s been sitting here all afternoon plotting in his head, this is the conclusion. No matter what happens now, we can’t go back. The veins of hatred have twined around his heart like vines of ivy creeping up an old brick house. He wants me to hurt like he’s been hurting. He wants me to lose. I close my eyes and hold my breath, waiting for whatever may be coming next, bracing myself for the worst. It’s okay. I’m ready for it. Maybe this will give him the closure he seeks. Maybe I’ll be able to help him after all, even if it costs me my life. The gun shoots and the explosion shatters the air, thunderous and deafening. The bullet pierces the silence as it tears across the room. The swift gust of air from the recoil sweeps across my cheek. I let out the breath I’d been holding and open my eyes. Bastain is staring out into the open space, his chest heaving as his mouth falls open.

He didn’t shoot me. Maybe there is hope. I let my head fall back as I thank God and catch my breath. The air leaves my lungs in long, hard spurts. He’s still speechless and staring. I turn to see what’s captured his attention, thinking perhaps the bullet hit something valuable and caused more damage than he intended.

My pain is immediate, like a lightning bolt to the chest. No. No, no, nooooooo. Gatsby. Not my baby. I jump off his lap and run over to the tiny lifeless Yorkie. The adrenaline of the last five minutes turns to despair as I fall to my knees.

“I want you to know what it feels like to lose.” Bastain’s words play over again in my head. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to walk over to that chair and bash him in the head with the butt of his gun. This life, this precious, innocent life… has been yanked from me in an instant. The love that filled my void, a void he created by not wanting children, is gone. Stolen. Ripped from the safety of my heart and shattered into a million pieces. Eyes that used to sparkle when I’d rub his fur are now dull and cold. I take his paw in my hand, running my fingers back and forth over it one last time. He doesn’t wag his tail energetically when I touch his little belly. He just lies there, unmoving. I will him to wake up, to be okay. Even though I know he won’t. Please, Gatsby. I need you. We’re partners, remember?

My eyes fill with tears as I realize he’ll never greet me at the door, or wake me with wet kisses. He won’t yap at the UPS man, or stand on two legs for a bacon treat. This little guy, this huge piece of my world, is gone now.

I look back at Bastain, who hasn’t moved from his chair. He simply sits there, watching with some twisted appreciation of this moment. I was wrong. I can’t help this man. There is no hope for him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, Em. I just wanted to scare him,” he shouts after me as I dig through our walk-in closet for an old box.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and turn to face him. He’s standing in the doorway. He plays the role so well that for a split second he actually has me convinced he’s sorry, that it was an accident. Part of me wants to tell him it’s okay, that I understand. I don’t want to upset him. I want to fix him. But, a bigger part of me, the wiser part, wants to junk punch him for behaving like a monster. Bastain can’t be fixed, because he doesn’t want to be fixed. All of it, everything, is starting to fall into place. It’s like I’m watching the parade from the helicopter instead of my one little corner of the street. I can finally see the big picture.

Thinking back to the look in his eye, the animosity in his tone, I see the truth. I suppose in some sense it’s always been there, waiting for him to grow tired of living the lie. I just didn’t want to see it. He blames me for everything. Isolating me from my family, my friends, the outside world- it was all part of a perfectly executed plan to make sure I was alone. He wanted me alone, because he feels alone. He kept me from working. He kept me from socializing. He kept me busy enough and complacent enough that I wouldn’t notice any of it. He knew exactly how to play the victim so I’d feel obligated to him. He used my compassionate nature as a trap. And I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Every day I let another piece of myself go. Every day I became more and more his and less mine. I think that’s the hardest part for me to swallow. There was no switch turning it on or off. The loss of my existence was a slow fade. I didn’t even realize it until I had almost vanished completely. It’s too late to go back now. The damage has been done. He fired the first shot. It’s time for me to fire back.

“What happened to Bronson wasn’t my fault.” I wish I could convince myself that’s true.

I haven’t spoken his name in five years. We don’t talk about that night. We don’t mention the accident or what happened in the days following. It’s just another wound we cover with a bandaid, hoping it will heal itself. The truth is, nothing heals itself. Open wounds fester. Everything may look okay on the outside, but on the inside the poison spreads. And it doesn’t stop until it’s eaten up every ounce of goodness left. I would never have mentioned Bronson unless it was a last resort. I know how badly it hurts when a band aid like that tears from your skin. But you don’t get rid of a weed unless you dig it up by the root.

“This isn’t about him. Leave my brother out of it,” he spits. He blocks the exit of the closet with his arm. He’s wrong. This is about him. It’s always been about him.

“We need to talk about it, Bastain. You need to talk about it.” You can’t keep it bottled in forever. The anger will destroy you. If it hasn’t already.

“He’s dead. There’s nothing to talk about.” His words are filled with hatred, and I’m suddenly thankful he’s put the gun back in his safe. I remove a pair of black boots from their box then stand directly in front of him, daring him to move. “Where are you going?”

My eyes narrow as they lock with his. I’m not backing down. His words don’t control my emotions anymore. “I need to bury my dog.”