Stain (Stain #1)(2)

“Protect us,” I finally answer.

I lengthen my strides, practically jogging now. I’m at their bedroom door before I can fully process my next thought. The door’s closed. A slight turn of the knob and small push opens it. There is something ominous in the air, and it’s so thick it makes it hard to breath. With the gun held firmly in my sweaty grip, I enter the room cautiously. The television they’ve put on their dresser is on; it’s on mute. It flickers whitish blue images from the screen onto the walls and furniture in the room, casting shadows. There’s no other source of light. I know Noah is right behind me, but it doesn’t lessen the dread swishing in my veins. My muscles are tight, my heart isn’t racing but the beats are inconsistent, throbbing to the rhythm of fear I know all too well. Stubbornness pulls me further into the room as my eyes dart around in search of my mom, or worse—my dad. There isn’t the usual chaos. No overturn furniture. No broken fixtures. No shattered bones. No crying. It’s quiet. Chillingly quiet. I raise the gun up when my eyes land on the mattress. It’s dad. My hand is shaking so badly I have to bring up my other hand to steady my aim. I approach the queen-sized bed he’s lying on.

“Is he sleeping?” Noah asks in a whisper, forever my shadow.

I don’t know. It looks like he is. He’s on his stomach, arms at his side, face buried in the mattress. There is a 50/50 percent chance he could be drunk or high, maybe even both. But when my eyes take in the dark pool on his pillow haloing his head I’m almost sure he’s neither of those things.

Fathers are supposed to protect you. They’re supposed to be supportive and loyal. They’re supposed to raise you, love you, and cherish you in spite of the mistakes you’re bound to make. They’re supposed to teach you lessons, steer you down the right path, discipline you when you do wrong, and allow you to learn from their examples. Our dad is none of those things. He is cruel and sadistic. There was no love to be found in a man like him. A man who is more demon than flesh and blood. He preys on us, feeds off of the fear he elicits like we are his own personal supply of food. His forms of affections are exhibited through fists like battering rams on fragile bones. My mother, my brother, and myself—no one is spared. No one is above his contempt. But in my opinion, the violence is far better than the perversions he forces us to commit. In the cellar, in a room that is as cold as a tomb, beneath scorching stage lights bright enough to blind there is a bed, a camera, and at times, my twin and I. He’s stripped us of so much more than our clothes. I shake my head to get rid of the disturbing images that pop up in my mind.

I look at him, stare unblinkingly at his body lying in a dark pool of his own blood. There’s no sorrow. No happiness. Not even a sliver of hate. I feel nothing for this man who’d emptied his dick inside my mom twelve years ago and contributed to mine and Noah’s conception. He means nothing to me. He’s never meant anything to me. The fact he’s dead is a huge favor on humanity. Good f*cking riddance.

“Max…?”

I lower my gun. There’s no need for it now. “He’s dead.” There’s no sense of relief with that statement. But I frown as questions suddenly flood my mind. Is this a murder/suicide? Where is Mom? Is she…dead, too?

It’s the sound of water in the silence that has me racing for the bathroom connected to their bedroom. There’s a slice of yellow-orange light beneath the door that grows wider when I open it. The running water is coming from the bathtub, and it’s filled to the brim, overflowing on the tiled floor. She’s in there, lying in the tub, the water overtaking her pale, frail body. She’s naked so I can see the rainbow of purple, green, and pale yellow bruises mapped across her skin. Her arms are on each side of the tub, and in one hand she limply holds onto a gun. The gun she more than likely used to kill that predatory f*ck.

“Mom,” Noah beats me in calling her name, the distress in his voice echoing my own silent one.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warns, her voice thin. She keeps her eyes closed and her head back against the tub. “Maddox?”

“Yes, Mom?”

She sighs, says nothing for a long time before finally speaking. “You’re the oldest. I pushed you out first. Three minutes before Noah came.” She sounds strange. It’s not just the weak whisper of her voice, but there’s something about it I can’t name. It makes her sound far away. Her body is physically here but her mind isn’t. I can’t blame her. She’s had to live with that f*cker far longer than we did. Fifteen years of marriage to a monster was bound to take its toll.

Turning her head towards us now, her deep blue eyes open to look at me and Noah. The right one is swollen shut but the left is open enough to focus on us. “You were the stronger one. You’ve always been the stronger one...” Her voice catches like she’s going to cry. Like she’s been crying.

Depression.

That’s what that nameless something in her voice is. It’s her depression making itself known. She’s been on a cocktail of meds since I can remember, maybe even when she was pregnant with us. Xanax, Prozac, Lexapro, Lithium, the list goes on and on. They line the medicine cabinet behind me. All on very high dosages. I’ve taken some. Not for me, but to sell. That five hundred dollars I used to buy the gun came from selling her meds to the kids at school. There was a high demand for it, so I supplied it. That included mine and Noah’s Ritalin.