We Told Six Lies(72)

Maybe that’s because I’m getting to my feet and keeping my gun pressed against my leg.

Holt gets to his own feet, his eyes locked on the weapon in my hand. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve never really been there for me,” I say, accusation twisting my words.

Holt’s hands come up like he’s been afraid of this moment for a long time. “What are you talking about? I’ve always been there for you.” Holt hesitates. “Brother, we’re going to figure this situation out together. I’m going to be with you—”

“You’re always running off to be with your friends,” I say, feeling the blood simmering in my veins. Not sure what I’m doing, but unable to stop the escalation. Because I’m remembering my childhood now. Remembering how Holt always resented me, and not the other way around.

“You never cared about me.” I lift the gun.

Fear lights up my brother’s face. His eyes are so big I think they might roll from his head and land in the palm of his hand like a pair of dice—snake eyes.

“Cobain, holy shit, what are you doing?”

“You were always jealous that Dad liked me best,” I say.

Holt’s face twists with confusion. “You…you always said Dad favored me. Now you’re saying it’s the other way around? Cobain, just put the gun down. Please!”

I shake my head. “I remembered everything wrong. It was too hard to remember it the way it was. It was too hard to remember the truth.” I straighten my arm, stare down the length of my weapon to the fear locking my brother’s body in place. “You never cared about me.”

“I loved you!” he roars. “No one cared about you more than me!”

My voice is a lesson in control. “No one cared about me less than you.”

I search the side of the gun until I find the safety. Click it off.

Holt looks like he might run.

I’ve never seen terror like this before.

And I’m asking myself, What am I doing, what am I doing?

But I have to be sure about him.

I take aim with purpose, hold the gun with both hands, and ask him one question.

“When is your birthday?”

Holt’s face contorts with confusion. “What? Cobain, put the gun down. What the fuck, man? You’re my brother!”

“When is your birthday?”

“Cobain, stop. Please, for fuck’s sake, I’m your family! I’m the one who—”

“WHEN IS YOUR GODDAMNED BIRTHDAY, BIG BROTHER?”

He holds his hands out in front of him, shaking from head to toe. In the distance, I think I hear a train. Is that a train or is the sound in my head?

Slowly, Holt begins to lower his arms. And even slower, a smile parts his face. He laughs, once, and it echoes the crazy I feel inside.

“You got me,” he says at last. “I can’t remember my fucking birthday.”

I shoot him.

Blood sprays across my face, but that can’t be right.

That shouldn’t be what’s happening right now!

He stumbles back two sharp steps and then falls, and then I know for certain that a train is coming, and I’m going to throw myself beneath those rusted wheels.

I rush to his side, dropping the gun, dropping to my knees. I take his head in my hands and hold it in my lap as he sputters. When he smiles, his teeth are laced with blood.

“Holt!” I shout. “Oh my God, Holt. Please, God. You’re going to be okay. I fucked up. I thought I knew, but… Oh God, oh fuck!” I release him and reach for my phone, my fingers fumbling to call for help.

But he reaches up to stop me.

“Cobain,” he says with a wheeze that cuts through every vital organ in my body. “Cobain, say it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh fuck! Holt. You’re bleeding so much.”

I press down on his chest, and he covers my hand with his.

“Say it,” he repeats.

And I know I need to because he doesn’t have much time left. Already, the color has drained from his face, and his too-thin body somehow appears even more emaciated.

Holt fights to take a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and grips my hands with sudden intensity.

“Say it!” he demands, and blood splatters my face.

The train is coming closer, but there’s no whistle this time. Just the thunk-thunk of the beast barreling toward us.

I put my hand to his cheek and bite down against the tears filling my eyes.

“You never really cared about me…” I begin.

Holt nods and coughs.

“You never really cared about me,” I say. “Because you were never here.”

Holt smiles.

“You’ve never been here,” I continue.

Holt’s eyes bore into mine. Eyes I’ve seen every day since I was born. But those eyes changed when I turned seven, didn’t they? They used to be brown. And now they’re blue.

I made them blue because that seemed a nicer color.

“You went away when I was seven,” I say, and now the tears are pouring down my face. Because I remember him—my big brother, the way he was before.

Holt pulls in a deep breath and releases it as if by me saying this, he is finally free.