My Maddie (Hades Hangmen #8)(14)

Made to feel evil.

Flame, the man, still lived with the pain of his childhood. Before me now was Josiah Cade, the little boy confused by the world, suffering from the loss of his mother, sexually abused and hurt over and over by a father he could not hate, rather he loved unconditionally.

“I began to rock him back and forth like I’d seen Mama do,” Flame said, as he mimicked the motion. Then my heart completely shattered when he began to sing. I was frozen on the spot as Flame sang, in the most broken but gentle voice, “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” He stared at what would have been his brother in his arms and sang each line, gently rocking his body back and forth. And that was when I knew. Despite his paralyzing fears, Flame’s conviction that he would hurt our child was untrue. Seeing him like this, singing so sweetly to his dying brother, demonstrated to me that he would love our baby with such intensity it caused my chest to ache. Flame was love. This scarred and tattooed man could be the best father, if and only if he could forgive himself for a crime he did not commit.

My vision blurred as I listened to the soft cadence of his voice. My chest was racked with pain seeing how he had looked in that moment. He had even sat on top of the covered-up hatch in the floor. Where he used to cut and relieve himself of the flames he thought were in his blood. The same flames had risen again. Flame’s personal Armageddon, the place his demons gathered to do battle.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Flame whispered, his voice softening as he imitated speaking to the baby. “I heard a crackle in his skinny little chest, rattling. But Mama had asked me to look after him, to protect him. My little brother.” Flame stopped rocking, and I braced myself for the final part of this reenactment. “I counted his breathing. One… two… three… his breaths were slowing… four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten… Isaiah’s arms had dropped, his skin was ice-cold, but his eyes were still open and looking at me. I waited for him to breathe again… eleven… and I waited. Nothing was happening. I moved my arms.” Flame did. Carefully, with the utmost care, he moved his arms as though trying to stir a sleeping baby. “Twelve…”

Flame’s voice changed. It was pleading. Pleading Isaiah’s breaths to reach twelve. He rocked back and forth. I felt sick at the desperation on my husband’s face as he tried to rouse his brother. “Twelve… please… get to twelve…” Then he stopped. Flame grew completely still. “His arms fell to the side. His head tipped back, eyes still wide, but he wasn’t staring at me anymore. Isaiah had gone. Just like Mama.” Flame left his arms up, still cradling the ghost of his deceased baby brother. “He’d left me too. I’d hurt him. I’d made him leave me too…” I wept as Flame remained motionless, just watching his empty yet strained arms for so long I lost count of time. It was not until Flame moved that I wiped my eyes.

As gently as possible, he laid the ghost of his brother on the ground, then curled up over the old boarded-up hatch, legs and arms tucked into his stomach. The room was still. The wind blew a quiet melody outside, Flame’s heavy breathing its accompaniment. Silently, I crawled toward where he lay. The wooden floorboards creaked under me, but Flame was numb. Moving before him, I laid my cheek to the cold ground, mirroring his position. Flame’s eyes were glazed as he stared unseeing at the floor. His cheeks were wet with tears and red with sadness.

“You did everything you could,” I whispered, my voice breaking the thick, heavy air that had surrounded us.

I did not think Flame had even heard me until he lifted his eyes and said, “If you die, I will die too.” I stilled at the depth of devastation in his voice. But more disturbing was the conviction. He meant it. And I knew it was true. I knew it was true because I felt the same way. How did one live with half a heart?

I inched my fingers closer, leaving them just a fraction from his. His fingers twitched as though he wanted to take my hand and pull me close. But he was exhausted. I could see by his deflated body that the visit to his past had discharged the last morsel of energy he had.

“I will not die,” I promised.

Flame exhaled. Intense relief flickered in his eyes. But then his gaze fell to my stomach. “Mama died after she had Isaiah.” He choked on his words. “After she reached into the cellar and took my hand, my poppa told me not to touch anyone or the evil inside me would hurt them. I let her down. I took her hand when I shouldn’t have. Then when she died. I held Isaiah.” A tear fell from Flame’s eye and dropped to the floor. His face did not move. I did not believe he even realized he was crying. “I sang to him, Maddie. I tried to make him better.” My face crumpled with sorrow, and I desperately wanted to embrace my husband. To relieve him of the guilt that still lay heavily on his heart. “I rocked him.” His eyes grew wide, and with a lost soul’s innocence he asked, “What if… what if I sing to our baby? If I rocked them… and they died because of me?” Flame shook his head, his midnight hair dusting the wooden floor. “I can’t be a papa, Maddie. I don’t know how to be one.”

This was where we could share a fear. “Baby?” I said gently. My lip trembled. I needed to hold him. No, this time I needed him to hold me. “I… I need you.”

Flame froze. Watched me. I let a tear fall too. Flame’s hand followed it to where it had landed. The salty drop coated his fingertip. “You’re sad,” he stated. He moved his head so close to me I could feel the heat from his cheeks. “You’re sad because of me? Because I’ll hurt the baby?”