Unethical

Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Maxim

W ith each beat of my heart, I ache for her. The blood in my veins seeks her out. I smell her on every inhale, and every exhale without her is torture to my soul. I’m sick with a terminal disease, and my need for her is killing me.

My love for her is killing me.

That’s what will be the death of me. Not the abuse I endured as a child. Not the long hours spent confined to a tiny prison cell. Though I’ve walked through the fires of hell and come out safe on the other side, this disgusting human emotion will be my downfall.

I never thought I’d feel this ache after my brother passed. After closing off my heart for so long, I never imagined someone would open a fresh wound on a body part that has long since died. When I pushed my brother into the well, it was a final act of love—an emotion I swore I would never allow myself to experience again.

But here we are.

I feel it, and I hate it.

I sit in my car a mere block away from her house. My foot itches to press the gas pedal so that I can glimpse the woman who stole a piece of my heart and stomped on it.

As she should have.

Pushing my brother into the well was an act of love, but what about what I’ve done to Sarah? Love isn’t selfish, and I’ve been far too selfish where she’s concerned. Why is it that I can only realize this now? Why am I only capable of seeing the error of my ways after I’ve crossed a line into territory I can’t come back from?

Wild desire draws me toward her now. If I pull out of this parking lot and go left, I can be at her house in less than three minutes. I can take what I want. Since when have I placed someone’s needs above my own?

Not since my brother, and this is the reason why. It hurts too much.

I pull out of the parking lot and make a right turn, heading to a place I never thought I’d see again. Winding roads drag onward as I drive toward the country.

After numerous turns, I finally return to the main road and keep driving. A tall black fence comes into view, with sharp points aimed at the sky at the top of every vertical bar. My car slides through the gates and continues up the perfectly paved road surrounded by well-manicured grass.

By memory, I follow the narrowing curves until I glimpse the smallest headstone jutting from the ground. Our parents refused to pay for something decent, but the funeral home took pity on my brother and donated a small memorial for his burial site.

The sun has begun to set, casting an eerie evening glow over the cemetery. I climb out of my car and sit in the grass in front of the stone. A river rushes nearby, but I can’t see it. I only hear the muffled gurgle of water against immovable earth. Flowers, both fake and real, adorn most of the graves, but my brother’s space is barren.

I’m sure he feels abandoned. No one visits. No one remembers him.

But that isn’t true. I think about him every fucking day, and I know he’s at peace.

A grave is such a sad, terrible thing for so many people, but for my brother, it was a gift. If I could have found some other way to save him, I would have. I would have done anything to dry the tears in his eyes or mend his broken body after all the senseless beatings. But I couldn’t, so this hole is his sanctuary, even if it doesn’t seem like it to anyone else.

Because I’m an asshole, I rise to my knees, lean over, and snatch a carnation off the neighboring headstone. With shaking fingers, I place it on the grass just below his name.

“I’m sorry, Caleb,” I say.

I’m not sorry for killing him, though. I’m just sorry I didn’t do it sooner.

We wasted too much time trying to get help from the useless adults in our lives, but no one listened. They just nodded and jotted down the lies our parents told to explain away each bruise or medical emergency.

People say children like us slip through the cracks, but maybe we wouldn’t if the cracks weren’t so wide and unwitnessed. If someone heard our cries for help as we gripped the edge and tried not to fall, maybe we wouldn’t have slipped at all.

I get up, brush the dirt from my pants, and head back to my car. A bottle of warm vodka calls my name from beneath a pile of dirty clothes in my trunk. I fish it out, lean against the car, and uncap the bottle so that I can take a long pull from the glass neck.

I was saving this bottle to celebrate my eventual release. I’m not supposed to drink on parole, but none of that matters anymore. Once Sarah turns in a scathing letter detailing my misdeeds, I’ll be on my way back to prison.

I was so stupid for thinking I could be anything more than a fucked-up felon. I was delusional for thinking I deserved someone like the doc.

Lukewarm liquor burns away the tightness in my throat. I’ve never desired to love or be loved, but now that I’ve had a small taste of it, I feel fucking terrible. The emotional parts of my brain have been turned off for so long that I don’t know how to process each scrape of the cogs as they try to break off the rust and begin working again. Maybe the alcohol can turn off those feely parts, because I don’t want this.

Any of this.

I don’t want feelings, and I don’t want her.

My throat opens as I pour more alcohol into my mouth. Vodka can turn off my feelings, but I don’t think it will touch my desire for her. Not unless I down the entire thing and die here in the graveyard alongside my brother.

Maybe that isn’t such a terrible idea. A psychopath deserves nothing less than death, even if an angel like her could have salvaged me.

She has a decision to make, but so do I. This longing for her won’t die until I do. I want to stay away from her and respect what she needs, but I’ve tethered my yoke to her wagon and I see only one way to break free. But if I’m going to do this, if I’m going to free her and myself, I want to see her one more time.

As a light buzz settles over my brain, I slide behind the steering wheel and start the car.