Dean

Lost. That’s how I feel as I sit in the corner of my son’s bedroom. Boxes are storing his clothes on one wall. Bed stripped bare. His young voice is prancing around in my head. Bittersweet memories are creating a cavity in my chest. Gouging, digging deep with every soul-searching breath I take.

Right then, sitting on his stool with his drumsticks in my hand, his drums exactly like mine in front of me, I feel as naked as his bed. Vulnerable.

I’ve tried to fight the visions that brand my brain, tried to venture into something else than the constant wondering if he suffered when he died. Did those burns on his face, arms, and chest hurt, or did the explosion freeze his mind as quickly as the experts told me it did? But I can’t get them out of my head. No matter what happens today with Leila, I’ll never let her be aware of the images that are embedded thickly in my troubled mind. I’m at risk of hurting a woman who was born for me to protect, and it kills me inside. Rips open old wounds. Creates new scars and bleeds me fucking dry.

In this swirl of my son’s private world, I need to flip the page, do what’s right and finally put my soul to rest whether I’m ready or not.

Grief bounds around my chest.

My own personal persecution is pushing, shredding, and relentlessly tearing me apart knowing I have to tell her, feeling that risk of someone bringing up their speculations again. This time, there wouldn’t be a thing I could do to avoid her hearing about it. “Fuck. Why?” I call out. Begging these walls to answer my question.

Memories shoot through my brain like bullets from a machine gun. One after the other, they slip out from under the intact layer of dread. Recollections so vivid they seem like yesterday. Walking with my kids hand in hand. The laughter ringing throughout the house as I chased them around. How even as a young kid, Landon’s eyes would deepen in color when he smiled. How Leila would stomp around in my boots instead of her own. How neither one of them never got too old to hang out with their old man. Cooking, baking, swimming. Kites. Those colorful kites that used to light up my world.

I spent this entire week pushing my mind, doing everything I could to convince myself to let him go without revealing the truth. I worked, checked on Miles, had lunch with Quinn to see how she was coming along. Spent time with Roman and Nash and had a heartfelt talk with Claudia. All the while ignoring the press, who have all but faded away ‘cause they know I won’t tell them a Goddamn thing. Won’t acknowledge that Sam fucking Borst has gotten into my head.

My nights I spent with Tatum. God, she draws the sweetest air into my lungs. Molten desire smolders between us; an addiction neither can resist.

Every morning, I have to pry myself out of her arms. I still can’t believe how she has been here all along. My evil twist of fate bent in the right direction when she entered my life.

We didn’t speak much about the pictures that are now taken down. But the press was all over her, and yet she remained strong. Ignored their snide comments, refusing to let them drag her down.

The second she stepped into my life, she woke up the dead man inside of me. Made me realize what my subconscious mind knew all along. I couldn’t fully let go of the past. Probably never will. Those darkened corners of my life will forever be shady. Compressing on my chest, clawing at my skin. Waking me up at night. And the guilt will endlessly control me.

Nerves scrape my throat. The sound of the front door shutting, Leila calling my name. Her quick footsteps on the stairs. Panic on her face when she edges her way through the door with a pleading look, tears springing to her eyes and flowing down her face.

The worst kind of fear takes hold of me. All the years I’ve been protecting Leila flash in front of my face. For one long minute, all I see is me losing her in a different way than I lost Landon. The idea of her not speaking to me again has me shaking like a dead leaf blowing in the wind. A silent drum roll that doesn’t lead to the crescendo. It just plays on repeat. Waiting.

My daughter. My flesh and blood has been living in hell with me. Misery sculpts a nice big hole in my stomach.

Can’t help but feel the flames of hell lick up my legs and slink into my insides.

My forehead creases. Confusion is glaring at my face. Knowledge and desperation. So much of it I suck in a sharp breath that leaves me choking for air.

I look at my grown-up baby girl, worry for me all over her features. Lips trembling, eyes darting around the room until they land firmly on me. Locked and loaded. Casting a haunted shadow. The truth stored behind her big brown eyes. The color of mine staring back at me with fear. The same kind of fear I’ve been wearing on my sleeves for years. A shield of protection.

Her features swell in some kind of unstoppable rippling current that snatches hold of me hard. Tugging and pulling my constant demons straight the fuck out of me. For the first time since he died, my heart begins its journey to heal at the expense of my daughter's pain.

I’ll be damned if she isn’t standing there pleading with me. Silently begging for me to understand. It’s as if she’s known what I have been hiding from her all along. It is then, in a room I haven’t stepped into in years, I know she has.

My son’s voice volleys in my ears. Speaking to me in a hushed whisper. Telling me it’s time for him to soar. Ready for me to part the dark clouds that have been suffocating my heart so he could have his rightful spot to live in it.

“Leila, sweetheart. Don’t cry. Not today.” She exhales a sharp breath, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and lets out a strangled cry.

The girl who always talks opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I can’t move. Can barely hold in my own cries.

“Okay, Dad.” Finally. Fuck. Dad. Best word created.

“I remember when we moved from our two-bedroom apartment into a three-bedroom. Thought for sure with the two of you having your own rooms, it would separate you just a little. It didn’t. First time I went to wake you kids up for school, something told me to get your brother up first.” I pause, shake my head. Tap lightly on a cymbal and let it echo throughout the room. “There you were, sound asleep with your head on your brother’s shoulder, covers all tucked under you and up to your chin. Landon tucked you in. Made sure you were good before he fell asleep with nothing but his pajamas on. I asked him why he didn’t wake me up, take you back to your room, or at least grab another blanket. Know what he said?” My ears loop around the words I’m struggling to get out of my mouth.

“What?” she croaks out, voice wobbly and on the verge of tears again.

“’Because she’s my sister. Nothing will hurt her if she’s wrapped up in my Superman blanket, Dad. When I’m sleeping, I can’t watch out for her, but Superman can if she’s covered up with his shield. I’ll always protect her, she’ll protect me, and we’ll both protect you. We have our own triangle, Dad. Me, you, and Leila, forever.’ You kids were seven years old. I chuckled. Asked him if he knew what protecting each other really meant. He said, ‘Yes I do, Dad. It’s when someone watches out for the other.’ You’ve been protecting me the same way I have protected you all along, sweetheart, haven’t you?”

Suffering slinks over my skin. Sinking all the way to the marrow of my bones. So many nights I prayed she would never know. Wore that shield like an extra layer of skin while I kept Leila’s flesh buried underneath mine. Prayed harder than I did when I sat against the brick wall at Jake’s, watching the pitch-black sky, searching for the right star to pray upon. Begging God to send me some kind of sign that it was safe to fall asleep. That he’d be the one to watch over me, protect me because I had no one to guard me. No one to place a shield over me in order to protect me from the cruelty lingering in this cold, cold world.

“Yes, I knew. I would have never kept it from you if I thought you did, too, Dad. Never. All this time, you’ve been dying a little more inside every day, trying to protect me from finding out because that’s the kind of father you are. The best kind. The one I feel honored to call mine every single time you introduce me as your daughter. I tried to get him to stop. I really did. I didn’t want you to find out. I thought if you knew, you would blame yourself, and I can see you have. You have a habit of wanting to protect others before yourself. I thought if I told you, you would run to the ends of the earth seeking answers you would never find. They are buried with him. You’ve always been my hero. I lost my brother. You, Dad, lost your son. You’ve always been brave, strong, and you need to be now. It was my turn to protect you. I had to do it the only way I knew how. I guess I’m more like you than we thought. I love you so, so much. What happened to him wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t mine. It was his, hers. That doesn’t mean we didn’t love him. We need to be brave and strong and finally let him go. Landon deserves to soar, Dad. He won’t until you quit blaming yourself.”

Years of exhaustion crumble her to the floor. Don’t have a clue where this girl gets her strength from. Sure as hell isn’t from me. Courageous before me. Bravery like I’ve never seen before.

I’m more shocked than I’ve ever been. I feel her extraordinary valor pushing inside me. Can barely see through the tears streaming down my face, splattering against my chest as I sit here listening to my little girl demanding me to be brave and strong, her words of wisdom ricocheting from the walls of my house. Punching through my heart.

The world spins all around us. Happiness, sadness, love, hate, life, and death. I blink, my words ripping out of me in a giant roar.

“My son! God, my baby boy! You kids should not have been weighed down with the worries of adults. I’ll never find the answers to why. I won’t ever let him go, Leila, but I can let his spirit soar. I can break off this last piece of guilt attached to my heart.”

Another loud sob tears from her throat. It stabs through my shield that will always be there when it comes to her. Not to have her brother here with us is torturing her soul.

I push off the seat, drop the sticks, and catch my daughter before she falls from her knees to her behind. Her sobs racking through her body as if every cell in her entire being screams out the release of the burden she was holding on to. Traumatized that she was carrying on, existing in a world without him. In this painstaking moment, I feel us both let go of the frayed rope holding my family together. We have been dangling in the air waiting for a conversation neither one of us wanted to have. One we can’t ever reverse.

One that was needed to move on. From this day forward, my son’s spirit will soar.