Page 57 of Dead to Me

“You should know better than anybody that doors do not scare me.”

I stepped back and kicked next to the lock. BOOM. BOOM. The frame cracked. On the third kick, the door burst open.

Malcolm stood by the bathtub, gripping a glass soap dispenser. He swung at me, but I ducked. The bottle shattered against the wall.

I stabbed his thigh with the knife. Malcolm screamed and fell against the sink. I pulled the blade out, and blood ran down his leg.

He tried to swing at me again, but I caught his arm. We struggled. He had more strength, but I had more anger. Anger won.

I slammed his hand against the counter. Then I stabbed him in the shoulder.

He screamed my name. I stabbed him again and again.

Six years turned into six wounds. One for each birthday I spent locked away. One for every Christmas. One for every year he woke up next to my sister while I woke to the sound of steel doors opening.

Malcolm slid down the wall, blood spreading across the front of his shirt.

His hands shook.

“Milan.”

I stood over him.

He seemed smaller than I remembered. For years, I had made him out to be bigger in my mind, and now I felt embarrassed by that.

“You loved me,” he said quietly.

I looked at him.

“Yes.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“Then stop.”

I knelt down.

“Do you know what the worst part was?”

Malcolm swallowed hard.

“I would’ve forgiven you for China.”

His face fell.

“I would’ve hated you both, but I would’ve survived it.”

“Milan.”

“You could’ve left me. You could’ve married her. You could’ve had ten babies with her, and eventually I would’ve moved on.”

He started to breathe quickly.

“But you didn’t just break my heart.”

I touched his cheek. He pulled away.

“You buried me alive.”