Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
She was there, sitting at that old table again, a cup of coffee in front of her, her finger trailing over that deep, deep scratch. He vacantly wondered what had made that deep scratch, something sharp and heavy that had dug into the soft wood and left a gaping scar. His grandmother seemed obsessed with it but had paid no mind to the wide-open wounds in the people around her. Or even her own. But he’d been small like Milo too. Completely defenseless.
And suddenly, rage like a tidal wave overtook him, and he grabbed on to the doorframe to keep himself from flying at her, from taking her scrawny neck between his palms and squeezing. A moan escaped his lips, fingers tightening on the jamb. I’m not like him. I’m not like him. No, he wasn’t like his grandfather, not in any way. And he never would be. “You never did a goddamn thing to help me, you worthless piece of shit,” he spat out, his words laced with all the anger and grief and hopelessness he’d carried inside him since he was a tiny boy. “You could have called someone. You could have taken me and left.”
“You’re right,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like unused sandpaper, both abrasive and thin. But her eyes remained glued to the table as she began murmuring under her breath. Prayers. She was whispering prayers.
And he remembered then. “You used to sit outside the door to the shed and say prayers,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes. “I heard you. Sometimes I even called to you. But you never came in and rescued me.” She’d prayed outside a door when she possessed the key. And maybe Ambrose didn’t need to know more than that to understand the woman sitting in front of him.
But it still hurt. The pain inside was agony. It was the pain of the little boy he’d once been, but that little boy was part of Ambrose. And so Ambrose suffered too. He felt small again—unlovable—even though he recognized that his grandmother was only the cracked shell of a woman.
His grandmother began rocking in her seat. Back, forth, back, forth. The last of Ambrose’s anger drained, but so did the grief, leaving him with an empty feeling of sadness. But he knew now that he could fill that space with things of his choosing. Not alcohol or drugs, or other types of poison. So, no, this was a sadness that served. A sadness worth holding on to. For now, anyway.
Yes, his grandmother was a husk. He watched her there, rocking herself to and fro, gaze zoned out. Her mother or father had done something terrible to her, and then she’d found a husband who was familiar. She’d checked out long ago. She was an old woman now, and he could only feel sorry for her. There was no Dr. Sweeton to help. But she had this farm, and her abuser was gone. Maybe she could at least let some of the fear go.
“Goodbye, Grandma. I won’t be back.” And then he turned and walked out of the house he’d never been welcome in, for the final time.
He vowed that the cycle stopped with him. He was going to do his best to heal and to do some good with his life. Because he owed that much to Dr. Sweeton, and he owed that much to Milo Taft too. Because Ambrose had run when he could have . . . what? Attacked? Yelled? Tried harder. Even if Milo had already been dead, it might not have killed the final piece of Ambrose’s soul if he had tried harder in some way. Even now, he didn’t know what that was. But how could he forgive himself when Milo was dead and he’d stuffed the memory of his murder so far down in his subconscious that his family had suffered for so many years?
And maybe if he had figured out a way to fight for Milo, his grandfather would have killed him too. But he would never know, because he hadn’t . . . and he’d have to live with that now and forever. But living with it was better than trying to stuff it away and cover it up with drugs, frankly, as unexpectedly true as that was. And so he’d live a doubly good life—making up for the void of Milo Taft.
Ambrose walked back along the road, opening his phone and calling for a cab once he’d made it to the leaning mailbox that spelled out his family name.
There would be no more DeMarces—they would die out with him, and that seemed right and the greatest justice he could bring down upon a twisted bloodline. He would never have children, ones that might very well look like his grandfather. What a thing to live with. He couldn’t begin to imagine how awful that would be. The small face of his grandfather staring at him for the rest of his days. And perhaps that was irrational—hell, on some level, he knew it was—but it still felt right. Forget the genetics: What kind of father would he be, anyway? The only male figure in his life had savagely abused and tortured him. He wouldn’t have any idea what to do with a tender child. He refused to put another ruined person into this already broken world.