Page 88 of Glorious Ruin
Only two words penetrated the blackout.
He’s dead.
The fight drained out of me all at once, and my body slumped as if someone had severed my strings. A hollow crater was all that was left in my chest as the blinding rage evaporated into thin air.
My shoulders began to shake as the dam finally, and irreparably, broke. I let out a gut-wrenching sob, an ugly and broken sound that carried twenty years of repressed agony. Tears flowed relentlessly, creating lines through the dust that coated my face.
Silas held me against the floor, trying to protect me from the memories of my childhood hell, while his own tears rapidly soaked the collar of my shirt. He rocked me gently, whispering a litany of sweet nothings into my skin until my cries subsided into exhausted, stuttering breaths.
“Grab a box,” I croaked as I picked myself up off the floor. My voice sounded like I swallowed crushed gravel.
Silas didn’t hesitate. He navigated the wreckage, found an empty cardboard box in the kitchen, and brought it to me.
I started walking through the ruins of the house with a chilling precision and emotional detachment. I wasn’t angry anymore. The tears had dried up, leaving my eyes with a steady burn in their wake.
On a dusty bookshelf in the corner of the living room, I pulled down a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was the only thing I owned that had belonged to my mother, and the only memento I wanted of her.
As I turned for the bedrooms, my eyes caught a polished brass and wood plaque hanging proudly on the wall. It was somehow missed by the carnage.
“Officer of the Year. For Outstanding Service and Protection to the Community.”A scoff fell from my lips, bitter, sick, and dripping with irony.
“He was a hero,” I muttered darkly, staring at the acknowledgement that gleamed in the dim light. “A decorated cop. They gave him medals and applauded him while he was coming home and drowning his own kid in the bathtub.”
I raised my bleeding hand and casually, but forcefully, swiped the plaque off the wall. It hit the hardwood floor, the protective glass shattering over his engraved name.
Stepping over the ruined lie, I moved toward my old room. Surprisingly, it was untouched. It looked exactly like the prison cell I’d abandoned. There was a cheap twin bed with no sheets, a small battered dresser, and holes punched through the thin wood of the closet door.
I walked over to said closet, needing to force open the door thanks to the wood sticking from non-use. Tucked beneath an old, moth-eaten blanket was a stack of faded Polaroids. They were photos of me when I was four years old, smiling and sitting on my mother’s lap. It was before Ewan’s drinking had consumed the house, before Fiona walked out the door, and before my life became an endless nightmare.
I picked them up and dropped the images into the box. “Let’s go,” I said flatly.
“You know,” I murmured as we skulked through the hallway, my voice echoing quietly. “He was a miserable, violent, deeply-homophobic bastard.”
I stopped to stare at our reflection in the cracked, grimy mirror hanging by the front door. Two large men with careers in fighting, entirely devoted, and undeniably in love.
“I hope he’s rotting in hell. And I hope he’s screaming his lungs out seeing me standing in his fucking house with my husband,” I whispered as a dark, victorious smirk finally touched my lips.
I turned around and pressed a lustful kiss to Silas’s mouth. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”
As I swung the door wide, my breath was instantly stolen from my lungs. Standing on the weathered planks of the front porch, with her hand raised as if she’d been about to knock, was Fiona.
My blood ran cold.
The last time I saw her, she was vibrant, but the passing years had carved deep lines into her face. Still, even with her new crow’s feet and laugh lines, she looked polished. Too polished for this neighborhood.
She was wearing an expensive trench coat with a designer handbag slung over her shoulder. Her hair was the same dark color as mine, perfectly coiffed to hide the greys. There was visible shock on her face when our eyes met, and she took a small step back. I was paralyzed, staring at the ghost who had abandoned me and left me with the devil.
“Callum?” she breathed, her voice a fragile, questioning rasp.
I gritted my teeth, a defensive hiss escaping my lips as I stumbled backward. My spine collided hard with Silas’s chest, and my hand shot out to grip the wall so I didn’t collapse.
Fiona got over her astonishment quickly, but instead of stepping back, she steppedinside. She crossed the threshold of the house and pushed the heavy wooden door shut behind her, the latch clicking into place with a grim finality.
I was successfully trapped, and the walls immediately shrank. This was my version of a living, breathing hell.
Even if I had wanted to speak to her, I couldn’t form words. So, with erratic breaths, I grabbed the tarnished brass door handle and twisted it. The door flung back open, and I shoved my way past her, clipping her shoulder while storming outside. I gasped for fresh air, the overgrown yard becoming a sanctuary against the barrage of emotions swirling through me once again. Silas was right on my heels, his presence a protective shadow behind me.
“Callum, wait! Please, come back!” Fiona yelled, her polished heels sliding and slipping on the gravel as she hurried out behind us.
