Today is the day we battle to the death. There won’t be a secret left in the dark as we rip apart our house from the inside. Wounds will be pulled to the surface, ugly truths uncovered under the harsh light of day.

The rain has come and gone, and now it’s back again, thunder threatening to rip a hole in the sky. Windshield wipers forge their own battle, slashing away at droplets of rain as they stain the glass.

My fingers fumble with the cap of a prescription bottle, tumbling into the orange canister for a magic pill to calm my nerves. I toss it into my mouth and down it with a swig from a bottle of beer.

I roll down the window, rain spraying into the car, and toss the bottle into the forest, then press my foot against the accelerator as I roll the window back up. It’s been twenty-four hours since I left Kemper standing in the rain. It’s been just as long since I’ve seen anyone else.

I took some time to be alone. At first, it was only supposed to be for a few hours, but after a few too many drinks, I passed out in the back seat of my car. I threw my phone out the window about twelve hours ago, and I’m left unfazed about all the calls I’ve missed.

As I pull up the long winding driveway of my house, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, rays burning against my back. Just as quick as the clouds came, the sun pushes through the white puddles of the early evening sky, granting a brief break from the chaos.

I glance around the property when I step out of my car. An ancient house still standing, though large portions of the hillside have eroded over the years. Fall leaves cover the yard, brushstrokes of dying brown clashing against the white exterior of the house.

I hear the screen door creak and prepare myself as Brock stampedes onto the porch, and perches himself over the railing. “Where the hell have you been?”

I roll my eyes. To hell and back, and now, apparently, back to hell again. I came here armed and ready for battle, but at least allow the courtesy of settling in first. He latches onto my arm when I attempt to pass him.

“You have no right,” he scolds me. “You disappear without telling anyone where you’re going.”

“Let go of me,” I command and rip my arm away from him. “Don’t pretend to be concerned. There’s nobody here you have to put on a show for.”

“When did it begin?” he questions, jumping straight into it, leaving my mind reeling with whom told him what.

“I’m not talking about this,” I say lowly and pull the screen door open. He follows me into the house and slams the front door shut, sending a photograph of him and his mother straight to the floor, the glass shattering against wood. “You’re cleaning that up.”

“When did it begin?” he questions again, following me into the living room.

I turn to him as I throw my jacket on the couch. “It’s an illusion and nothing more.”

He recoils, his face screaming of confusion. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m out of excuses.”

“That doesn’t give you a free pass for the things you’ve done.”

“Oh,” I chuckle at the hilarious hypocrisy of his words. “I’m well aware of that.”

“What is this to you?”

I zero my eyes on him, somber and broken. “It’s the part of this tragedy where I break free.”

“Tragedies always end in death.”

My eyes widen and I can’t help but laugh to myself. “And for the last nomination of the night, Brock Hamilton throws his hat in the ring for literacy.” I pound my fist against the wall and laugh with the gusto of a crazy person. “I guess not all football players are brain dead after all. One huge fucking step for all of mankind.”

“You’re high,” he accuses with a finger, but it doesn’t hit all the right spots.

“I’m going to need you to eviscerate me with a little more oomph.”

He lunges across the room and grabs me by the arm, directing me into the foyer. “You need to go to bed.”

“I’m tired of sleeping all the time.”

“Your eyes are burnt red—“

“From the exhaustion of keeping up this charade.” I twist to face him, freeing myself from his grasp. “I thought that maybe we weren’t as broken as I thought we were, that maybe what we had the other night wasn’t a one-off, that maybe we could get back to that.”

“We can,” he assures me with a twinkle in his eyes. “We can go back to the way things used to be.”

“I can’t forgive you.” I lower my head and let out a soft exhale. “I’ve tried. I’ve honest-to-God tried.”

“We’ve been on this balancing board before. It always levels out the same.”

“You are so naïve,” I scowl, the anger and heartbreak rising from the pit of my stomach. “What do you see when you look me in my eyes? What do you see when go a little deeper to the point where the genetic makeup of my eyes are all that you can see?” I push my face up against his, invading his personal space and forcing me to stare me down, to take survey of the way my eyes lie dead and buried.

“I see pain.”

“What do you see that I don’t see everyday?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “You won’t let me in.”

“This will always go back to that crash,” I sigh and turn away from him, bracing my hand on the railing of the stairs.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, that we’re past that.”

“Easy for you to say when you don’t carry the scars.” I pull my shirt over my head in one devastating motion, exposing the scar that runs a curve around my side like a trench long buried.

His lips draw tight and his eyes fold over into a retreat where he doesn’t have to see the monster I’ve become. This is the way he’s been able to carry on with our lives as if nothing happened, but I’m tired of bearing the burden of his actions, a sentiment I don’t even need to voice. In the back of his head, he’s always known if he hadn’t been so quick to alert Nathan’s parents, Nathan wouldn’t have been drunk in a car and thusly I wouldn’t have jumped into the car with him.

“Look at me,” I whisper to him. “You want inside my head? This is your chance.”

He cranes his head away, and by the balance of his right foot leveled ever so slightly before his left foot, I know he’s about to run. Oh, how the tables have been turned.

“Look at me,” I scream, my own blood curdling from terror. I’m terrified of myself and what I might do, and what I might say, but it’s too late to stop the truth, even if I risk burning this house to the ground by saying it out loud.

He looks at me, as commanded, but his eyes are lost elsewhere, somewhere between the floor and my scars. I reach for his hand, to guide his fingers over the raised skin of my scar, and then continue on until his palm is pressed firmly against my stomach.

There’s a chance, no matter how small, that the two of us could reconcile here in this foyer on a chilly autumn Tuesday. But not after what comes next. “These scars are a constant reminder of what I lost that night, and it’s more than you’ve ever known.”

His eyes are too lost on my scars, and why shouldn’t they be, this is the first time I’ve allowed him to see them for longer than a split second at a time. “What are you talking about?” he questions softly, but he’s not ready for the answer. I’m not ready, either, but I’ve been holding the weight of our loss alone on my shoulders for too long.

I give myself a moment to prepare myself, but there’s never enough time. “I was pregnant,” when the words slip from my lips, I’m overtaken by a flood of tears, my eyes blurry and hollow.

Brock stills. Contempt and sorrow weaving into the fabric of his face. Is it hurt? Sadness? A potent combination of both? His throat tightens, his lips too. He reaches a boiling peak, and I know tonight’s the night I finally die. Maybe I won’t be in a casket six feet deep, but my soul is gone.

So is his.