JACOB
Returning home was just as hard as I'd imagined it would be. Driving into the city hadn't been so bad. With large glass towers and busy streets, the city had changed through time. The population was denser, the landscape constantly shifting as buildings were demolished and modernized. Creeping down the road through thick traffic hadn't clogged up my throat with memories and long faded emotions, but the same can't be said for the sleepy neighborhood where my childhood home sat empty, for the lazy sway of tree branches and winding streets that had stayed the same despite the amount of time that had passed since I last traveled this path.
Not even the parish, in all its holy glory, had affected me as much as the driveway I was now pulling into.
A semi-circle, the driveway took me up one side of the property, curving me around through the lawns and landscaping that had been meticulously maintained by the men managing my father's estate, right past the front door that sat deep inside a large, shaded portico. Slowing down as I approached the front, I stared at the driveway that kept going, that would lead me away from a place to which I'd never thought I'd return.
My hands gripped over the steering wheel, my eyes glaring at the house as I pulled to a stop. Even as a kid, I never understood the privilege in which I'd been raised, the amount of money my devout father had hoarded to himself instead of using it to help other people in need. What would Jesus think of the way he'd managed his godly life?
Standing proud beneath the glow of a bright, full moon, the house was a three story masterpiece, complete with a stone exterior, carved wood detailing, travertine tile on the front porch, diamond paned leaded glass windows and turret style risings from the roof. It looked like a small castle nestled in the center of a small quiet suburb, as large and pompous as my father had been.
I climbed out of my truck, slamming the door shut as I peered out at a house that had been abandoned for years. My mother died before my father and when I'd learned of my parents' fate, I'd inwardly enjoyed knowing that his last few years were spent alone. However, that joy washed out of me now, diluted until empty by the rush of anger and heartbreak pouring through my veins.
So many memories lingered inside that house like ghosts that would never go away. They followed me into sleep from time to time, begging for me to return and set them free. Those ghosts were the reason the walk to the portico took that much longer to make.
Pulling out a plain manila envelope from my pocket, I broke the sealed flap and extracted the bronze colored key given to me by the managers of my father's estate. He'd been surprised to see me arrive in his office unannounced, had told me he assumed neither my brother nor I would return to claim our inheritance. Ignoring the way he'd rambled on, I'd asked him for the key and ignored all the other information he'd given me.
Not caring about trusts, not wanting a penny of the wealth that had been left to me, all I wanted at that moment was to turn around, climb in my truck and get the hell out of town.
Yet, here I was, staring at an empty house, knowing I had no other choice but to walk in. Every step felt like a heavy stone was tied to my foot, each inch I crawled closer chasing a shadow across my bones stuffed full with the reminder of the pain I'd suffered growing up.
Jericho and I had been treated similarly by my father, but it was my antics mostly that were noticed. Many times when people reported some stunt we'd pulled or supposed 'sinful' act, I received most of my father's wrath. I was the darker twin in his opinion, the one closely tied to the devil in his attempts to influence us both.
After a while, I'd grown so accustomed to the constant crawling and vicious lashings that when Jericho had messed up alone and gotten caught by a teacher or a nosy neighbor, I'd lied and claimed it was me. He was always weaker in that regard, unable to bear the painful punishments and unhinged scorn on the part of my father.
Jericho, despite what he'd grown to become, had at one time been soft.
Dad had been right, I was the darker twin, the one more prone to questioning authority and seeking excitement and entertainment in areas and subjects thought perverse or shameful by the members of a conservative Catholic community. But I couldn't help my fascinations, especially when they were waved in my face every day as a possibility that was always just out of reach due to a religion I wasn't quite sure I believed.
So like any rebellious child, I'd explored and tasted the sinful things. I stole gum at ten, other higher priced items as I grew older. I lied to my teachers and parents. I slept with women once their beauty caught my eye. Slowly, but surely, I crept through the places my father always told me to avoid, acting in ways that went against everything he demanded of me, and found that my tastes only grew darker the older I became. Vanilla sex, hearts and flowers type love, innocence and finer things all fell into a state of perpetual boredom until I discovered the true ways to liven up the endless days I spent sheltered in privilege I didn't deserve.
Jericho was a different story. From the minute we were expelled from the womb, he had always shone brighter. The quietest baby, the respectful toddler, the child that found early on how much he loved to sing in the church choir, Jericho was a shining light that only became dim when he went along with something I wanted to do. He was made of the same glimmering gold as the treasures housed in the grand beauty of our parish, and I was the air that tarnished him.
He was also the twin who screamed the loudest during my father's punishments, the one who cried and genuinely repented for his sins.
I guess times have changed since then.
Now I'm the one left licking my wounds while he sits on the throne of evil he'd created in the cult he called his family.
Father Timothy told me the answers regarding my brother's issues might be found in this house, if only I could find where to look. Regardless of what Father Timothy may have known or even suspected, by sending me here, he wasn't only sending me home...he was sending me straight to hell.