Page 56 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"Brandon?"
When I sit on the edge of the tub, he takes another swig from the half-empty bottle before I reach for it, but he yanks it away.
"I’m not gonna smash it this time.” I hold out my hand. “Just give me the damn bottle, would you?”
His murky-green eyes slowly lift to meet my gaze before he passes me the drink. I take it, place the rim to my lips, and tilt back my head. The warm liquor heats my throat as I swallow mouthful after mouthful, only dropping the bottle long enough to catch my breath before I turn it up again.
We pass the whiskey back and forth until it’s empty, then I stagger into the hallway, throwing the bottle down beside the couch because I can’t be bothered to walk into the kitchen. Sighing, I fall onto the sofa, toss my head back, and try to focus my swimming vision.
Brandon stumbles down the hall in his soaked shorts and slumps against the living room wall with his eyelids half-drooped and water puddling around his feet.
His jaw is purple and swollen from the fight, and I go to the kitchen and dig through the frozen TV dinners until I find an ice pack. But when I come back to the living room and offer it to him, he simply shakes his head.
"Your face looks awful, Brandon.”
"I like it,” he slurs, stumbling farther into the room. "I like the pain."
Dropping onto the sofa, I throw the ice pack onto the coffee table. Most people avoid pain at all costs, yet, here he is craving it. It's his own form of punishment.But you've been punished enough in life. We both have…
Brandon trips over the coffee table, then falls onto the couch beside me. He lays his head on my lap with a groan. "I'm sorry, possum," he mumbles, placing my hand on his damp hair, and a tiny fissure rips through my heart. After all these years, here we are again. Him wanting comfort, and me wanting to make him feel loved, to make the pain stop.
"It's okay." I choke on my words as I brush my fingers through his thick hair.
He grips my knee. "You know it's not."
"Okay.” I exhale. “It's not. But what do we do, huh?"
"We drink, and we try to fucking forget. Until we can't forget anymore." He rolls onto his back, his gaze touching mine before he focuses on the ceiling. "And then the demons will be right there. Waiting for us."
"Are they ever gone, Brandon?” I sweep a dark curl from his forehead, and his brows pinch into a frown. His jaw clenches.
"Every time I close my eyes, all I see are their faces," he says through gritted teeth. "Nothing but death and destruction.” Tears creep from the corners of his eyes, rolling down to his temples.
And I can’t help but think this is the part of war that’s left unseen. He and I—we are the reality of what it does to people, and there is nothing romantic about it. In our cases, I don't believe there is anything salvageable from it. And I find myself questioning God again with the whys, the hows, trying to grasp the cruelty of it all. "None of this is fair,” I whisper.
His eyes close, and a few more tears break free. "You should leave, poss. I destroy everything I touch. My dad always said the devil wouldn't even want me. That I was a worthless shit." He huffs a laugh. "Con found that out the hard way."
"Brandon, don’t—”
“This thing inside me, I can't control it." There’s a desperate sadness clinging to his voice. One that breaks me. "I'm gonna hurt you, poss.”
"You already did, and I’m still here." The alcohol swims in my veins, bringing honesty bubbling to the surface. As much as I wish I hadn’t said it, it’s the truth—one I’ve tried to deny for years, but all those years ago, Brandon hurt me.
He drags a hand over his face, and I wonder if he’s thinking about what he did. "I barely even know myself anymore."
I comb my fingers through his hair, fighting my urge to cry. "Neither of us are the same people. So, Brandon Blaine,” I swallow when I use Connor’s last name—my last name. “Who are you now?"
"I don't know."
"Well, when you figure it out, you just let me know." I lean over and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, and he trails his fingertips along my jaw in a feather-light touch. "I'm just glad I have whoever you are."
"Always, possum." He taps the tattoo on his chest. "Right here."
I cover the sob with my hand and keep sweeping my fingers through Brandon’s hair until he passes out. The broken taking care of the broken. What a pitiful mess we are.
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Brandon
