Page 103 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Hope must sense the thoughts running amuck through my mind because she rubs a soothing hand over my shoulder. "You can't feel guilty about any of this."
But the thing she’ll never understand is—I can.
And I do.
* * *
Hope foughtme about coming back home, but she lost, and now, as I make my way to the door, my stomach kinking and twisting, I wish I hadn’t. I have no idea what to expect when I go inside, so I take a breath before shoving my key into the lock and turning it. The door swings open and I stop mid-stride, keys still in my hand while my heart beats out a rhythm of heartbreak like it’s been tethered and quartered and pulled in four opposing directions
It’s not the sight of Brandon on the floor with his back against the sofa, his bloodied fingers clutching a bottle of whiskey, or the dark red smudge staining his cheek that breaks my heart. What pulls my soul apart are the tears pouring down his face while his chest heaves.
I’ve seen Brandon angry and quiet, and I’ve watched him cry, but outside of when his Ma died, I can't ever remember seeing him sob, and it terrifies me.
I close the door behind me, fidgeting with the keys in my palm before I take cautious steps toward him.
He tips the bottle back and swallows several heavy gulps before I drop to my knees in front of him.
"Brandon,” I whisper, knowing he's not here right now, afraid I’ll startle him.
His empty eyes meet mine, his wounded soul begging me for help that I have no idea how to give.
"Poss," he murmurs. "I just want it to stop." The utter brokenness that resonates in his voice drags me down a bit deeper. And deeper.
The memories that plague Brandon day and night may as well be a terminal illness because I fear he will die with them still clinging to his mind. They’re as much a part of him as he is a part of me.
"I know." I cup his cheek, and he closes his eyes before leaning into my touch. "I wish I could make it stop."
"I'm sorry." He tips back that bottle again, and God, how I hate that he feels the need to apologize to me for something he has no control over, for the awful cards he has been dealt.
"Nothing to be sorry for." I grab his sweat-slicked hand, and he allows me to pull him to his feet. All I want to do is pretend this isn’t as bad as it is, that it’s just another rough night when I know it’s anything but. "Let's get ready for bed."
He stumbles into the wall several times before we reach the bathroom, and I help him out of his bloodstained clothes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers when I turn the taps to the shower, and again when I help him onto the edge of the tub.
Unable to manage the tears still lingering in his eyes, I run a washcloth under the scalding water, then rinse the blood and sweat from his face, his neck and chest. His hands.
He doesn’t say a word the entire time, just stares at me like the world ends right here with him and me.
After I dry him off, we go to lie in bed. Like so many other nights of my life, he rests his head on my chest, and I place my palm against his cheek while running the fingers of my free hand through his thick hair. But this time, the silence is blaringly quiet.
I focus on each of his ragged breaths, understanding for the first time that some pain, some ghosts—well, they’re just too much.
"You know you should get out of this, Poppy," he says, his broken words cutting through the silence. "Save yourself. For me."
I sweep my hand through his hair again, pressing my chin against the top of his head. Just needing to feel him. "We're not talking about this right now."
His arms wrap around my stomach, holding me so tight that he shakes like he’s scared if he lets go, I'll disappear. "I turn everything I touch to shit,” he says. "I’m poison."
And that is what Brandon has been told his whole life, what he’s been conditioned to believe. How can I possibly explain love to someone who can't love themselves, who can't manage to see their own worth—Howdo I explain to Brandon that he is my world?
In this silence, I realize I can’t. Those words can leave my lips ten thousand times, but Brandon will never hear them. Some things just won’t break through that darkness.
I continue to sweep my fingers through his hair until his breaths even out and his tense muscles relax. And when he’s asleep, I cling to him a little tighter because I'm so afraid I'm going to lose him.
* * *
Later in the night,I wake to a dark room, gasping. My lungs burn and ache for a breath I can’t seem to catch. Someone’s grip tightens around my throat, and I claw at the hands crushing my windpipe. Arching my back from the bed, I kick and swat the person pressing down on my throat.
