Page 187 of Envious Of Fire
His dry, reddened eyes trapped upon Tristan’s, crusted with clots of blood and dirt that never quite wiped away. Never once blinking. Never once flinching. As still as glass.
Even now, Tristan thinks on Brock’s handsomeness, and how he’s always looked so sweet beneath the brawn. A sleeping face on Tristan’s lap in the hallway of a Texas high school, vulnerable.
The man sitting in that tub is anything but vulnerable. He is deadly. Yet his eyes tell another story, a story Tristan sees.
It’s to those eyes that Tristan speaks.It’s my fault, everything, all of it.For what’s happened to you.For your wife.Your son.All of it.
Brock continues to stare. Silent as death. Vacant.
You were right, says Tristan, slowly approaching the bath.All those years ago.You did right by trying to protect Kyle from me.I am…I am bad.I am a bad person.You deserve… Tristan stops. His eyes are full of tears, all of them clinging to his lashes, refusing to fall.You deserve a better existence.You deserved a better death, far, far from now, when you’re old and grey…I don’t even know if this is another chance at life you’ve been given…or just a living hell.
There is no change in Brock’s face. It is like talking to a wax model, to a mannequin in a store. Tristan’s words, filling a room, falling upon a dead man’s ears, falling upon the silent walls.
Tristan bows his head, unable to look at Brock anymore. He drops to his knees, hands on the floor. He can’t bear to breathe.
He barely hears the water stir.
Wet feet appear in front of Tristan’s spread fingers.
He lifts his face, stares up the naked mountain of Brock, tiny fingers of pale pink blood and dirt dripping down his body, murky veins across his skin. Tristan slowly sits back on his heels, stares up at Brock, silent, stunned.
Tristan trembles deep inside, deeper than bones.Brock…?
Only reddened eyes meet Tristan’s, perfectly still, silent.
Until a mighty hand reaches out.
Wraps itself around Tristan’s throat.
Slowly lifts him up, to his feet, then off his feet, up in the air, dangling from Brock’s mighty grip.
Tristan chokes. Sputters. Gasps for air.
Tristan could reach out. Easily. Touch Brock’s face. His Lull. Put an end to it.
For some reason, he doesn’t.
He lets this happen.
He welcomes it.
To Tristan’s face, up high in the air, many feet off the floor,dangling by that mighty hand, Brock says, “I … think … I did … something bad …”
Tristan continues to choke.
Gagging.
Sucking in to no avail.
“Do you think …” Brock swallows. Dry and hoarse. Difficult to speak, to draw breath. “Do you think I can … be good again? Do you think … there is something I can … still live for …?”
Tristan gasps out unintelligible words.
If they’re even words at all.
Just noises of desperation.
Of defeat.
