Page 34 of You'll Be Sorry

Next up, the cherry-traumatized rats bred to produce the next generation. These pups were not exposed to cherries and led blissfully cherry- and shock-free lives, ultimately birthing the third generation.

Which, the instant they smelled cherries, froze in place.

Think about it. Three generations later, the association still prevailed. How? These pups were raised by the second generation, which had never been exposed to the fruit, thus couldn’t communicate a behavioral response. In other words, nurture had nothing to do with it.

Which leaves us with nature. Could the trauma from the first generation be passed down physiologically to ensuing generations?

Kinda, sorta yes. The rats’ shared DNA didn’t change. Smell and association are neurological events, not the stuff of genetic mutation. However, the researchers discovered a modification to the DNA proteins that changed how the shared DNA wasreadfrom one generation to the next.

And there you have it. The science behind generational trauma, as well as a whiff of shared memories. Or at least, how the emotional impact of key events can linger.

That fear you feel—is it your own?

That rage that burns white-hot in your belly—yours or your predecessor’s?

That despair, dark and deep—from something you did, or someone else?

I fear. I rage. I despair.

And I accept fully the legacy of my forefathers, the weight of my epigenetics.

I’m sorry if you don’t get it. I mean, sure, you’re suffering. And in a vague way, you understand it’s bigger than you are. So many questions about your past you can’t answer. Shadows of shadows that flicker through the back of your mind, evaporating each time you try to bring them into focus. Those moments when the anger roars up from deep inside and you find your fists balled, your feet planted, your entire body poised to fight. Your ancestors wrestled mountains, conquered valleys, steamrolled villages. You may not remember, but take it from me—you come from a long line of ruthlessness, entitlement, and cruelty.

You may think your baser impulses are the exception, not the norm. The flashes of violence that color your dreams, not with horror, but anticipation. Until come daytime your self-control hangs by a thread. Would it really be so bad to lash out, to hurt, to finally do exactly what you want?

Nurture tells you absolutely not. But nature…Nature has always been a bitch.

I know because I have my own set of epigenetics. It orders me to delight in your pain and suffering. It dictates that I remain standing over here, watching from the shadows, because if your veins run with the blood of conquerors, then I come from the conquered.

I tried very hard to hate you in the beginning. But believe it or not, I also tried hard to help you in the end. I’m not sure either worked. Now, here we are.

The next installment for your consideration, from December 1790.

Friday 7th—A clear, cold day. I was called at dawn to go to Joseph Savage’s wife in travail. She seemed to fare badly and my anxiety was great. She was delivered of a second son at the eighth hour, but expressed much confusion and terror. She claimed visions of hellfire and demons. I gave her some medicine and she revived shortly. I left mother and child comfortable and walked home. At the twelfth hour I returned. Sarah Savage had a pain in her head. The baby would not rouse. I sett up all night. The infant, Wlliam Savage, expired at three o’clock in the morn. The father claims God’s will. I am troubled.

Do you understand yet? Have any inkling of the path we are both now treading? Events have been set in motion. After all these years, one way or another, the truth shall emerge, and what will be, will be.

Love and hate. Past and present. The saved and the damned.

See you soon.

12

Mandy was tired, because that’s what staying up half the evening staring at a disarticulated corpse did to a person. Not to mention grabbing a mere three hours of sleep before returning to the scene, which appeared just as ominous by the thin light of daybreak as it did during the oppressive dark of nightfall.

The fire chief, Austin Dekes, was already there. A bit of a legend around town, Austin had passed his younger years as a drunken, drug-fueled reprobate—a story that was unfortunately too common in these parts. After the proverbial bottoming out, however, he’d painstakingly turned things around, becoming something of an icon for his short-on-words-but-long-on-empathy approach. In a crisis, he was absolutely the man you wanted in charge, and the fact his loyal band of volunteer firefighters would follow him anywhere didn’t hurt.

Upon arrival, he’d taken it upon himself to erect some temporary wooden barriers around the pit as a matter of safety. He’d also changed out the batteries on the RDLs, as it required the full intensity of the high-powered beams to penetrate to the bottom of the gloomy well. Now he was scratching his gray-tinged beard while chatting with the petite older woman beside him—Betty, who’d apparently replaced her usual gossip-filled village loop with a personal walkabout of the Collinses’ property. But of course.

“Should you be here?” Mandy asked Betty with a stern look. Like anything could keep the retired postmistress away.

Betty smiled brilliantly. Austin shrugged.

All right then.

“Heard from the state,” Mandy supplied briskly. “The local ADME should be arriving shortly.” Local being a relative term. There were ten assistant deputy medical examiners. Of that number, two handled the entire north country, which might be short on population but was large on terrain. Whoever got this callout would probably have been driving since oh-dark-thirty this morning. As a courtesy, Mandy had loaded up two extra thermoses of coffee from the local deli, where she’d encountered the WMUR news vans, the crew trying to chat up Richie as he frothed lattes and pointedly ignored them. Good man, Richie.

The sound of more vehicles rolling down the dirt drive behind them.