“Uhh, I don’t know. I mean, they can’t tell you to leave the table if that’s what you mean.”
Ken laughs, and it reminds me of all the times he would tell us stupid dad jokes, and he, Jillian, and I would laugh until our cheeks hurt, and tears rolled down our faces. I miss smiling, being happy, feeling joyful instead of dead.
“Good, then let’s sit together,” Trish exclaims and grabs my hand. Together we walk back toward the table while Ken turns and goes to talk to Jackson. He returns a moment later, shaking his head, and Trish gives him a little frown before shrugging her shoulders. My own father refuses to look at me as well, but my mother makes small talk with Trish.
It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s the most structured my life has felt since losing her. Slowly, everything around me melts away, and I allow myself to feel normal for once. I allow myself to feel like I’m not the reason she died.
13
Jackson
How can they do this? How can they talk to her like she didn’t take Jillian from us? How can my mom hug her like she didn’t destroy our life? How can my father forgive her as if it wasn’t all her fault?
I’ve never felt so betrayed in my life. My own fucking parents, what a joke.
Sitting in the corner of the large room, I tighten the grip around the glass of champagne. My hand is shaking with barely restrained anger, and I know the thin glass is going to give way any second now. It’s going to shatter in my hand, like my life shattered the night my twin died.
Even though it physically hurts me to do so, I can’t look away. Every time my mom’s hand rests on Kennedy’s shoulder, I want to throw my glass at them. With every smile they give, it only adds gasoline to the fire. Fueling my hatred and anger until it threatens to swallow me whole. Darkness is my best friend, and I feel the need to give in to it right now.
They act like I’m not even here, ignoring me like they should be doing to her. I can’t fucking take this any longer. I need to get out of here, I can’t breathe.
Just as I get ready to walk out, I notice Kennedy getting up as well. She heads to the bathroom, and instead of leaving, I decide to follow her. Taking the long way around, I avoid my family all together and make it to the bathroom just as she is walking back out.
Sneaking up behind her, I grab her by the arm and pull her back. She lets out a shriek and twists in my hold. “Jackson!”
“Shut up!” I keep dragging her with me. She stumbles over her high heels, and I have to pull her up before she hits the ground. Once we are hidden around the corner, in a corridor away from the event, and any prying eyes, I push her up against the wall.
“What fucking games are you playing? Trying to get close to my family again? What’s the plan now? Killing someone else close to me?”
“What? No… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“You like playing the innocent little girl, don’t you? You might be able to fool my parents, but never me, do you understand? I know what kind of person you are. I know how black your soul is. You’re ugly inside.”
“Stop! Let go of me, Jackson.” Kennedy fights back, anger flickering in her eyes, which only fans the flame of rage inside me. If I wanted to, I could hurt her–really hurt her–but I wouldn’t come back from that, nor would my heart allow me to do such a thing. No matter how much I try and deny it, I care too much about if she’s living or dead, even though I shouldn’t.
But there are other things I can do to her, other ways to show her that I’m in control and that I always will be. Sliding a hand beneath her dress, I grab onto her thigh, squeezing it harshly, making sure she feels me. I can give her pain if I give her pleasure at the same time.
Her eyes go wide, the hazel really standing out, and her throat bobs as she struggles to get away from me, but I push her back against the wall. As my fingers run up the inside of her thigh, she goes stone cold, and then I feel it. Something rough and raised against the creamy smooth skin of her thigh. I run my finger across the line, it feels almost like a scab.
“What is this?” I ask, reaching for the hem of her dress, ready to inspect myself. As soon as our eyes connect, I see the pure panic in them. She completely freaks, becomes this wild animal, hell-bent on escaping me. Her hands lash out, and her nails dig into the skin of my face as she drags them downward.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” she screams as she shoves at my chest, panic clawing its way out of her. I reach for her wrist but miss, and she comes back, landing a hard slap across my face. I’m stunned, shocked by the violent action, which gives her the moment she needs to shove by me and escape. Running away, she disappears while I hold a hand to my burning cheek, wondering if everything that just happened was a dream.
What the fuck was that?
She acted like I was going to kill her. I’ve threatened her before, grabbed her, and touched her without asking. She’s never reacted like that before. No. This was different.
Whatever it is, it’s big. She is hiding a big fucking secret, and I’m going to find out what it is.
I don’t know why I stand there moping over it. I don’t care what the fuck is wrong with her, just so long as she doesn’t die because her misery is my enjoyment, and if she’s dead, well, there goes my fun.
Waiting a little longer before I reappear in the banquet hall, I give myself a moment to get my shit together. I go into the bathroom and check my face in the mirror. There is a scratch mark across my cheek, but I can’t do shit to hide it. Not going to lie, the fact that Kennedy attacked me is surprising as fuck.
Cleaning myself up as best as I can, I leave the restroom and walk back into the party. I make it all of two feet inside the door before my mother is on me, her face a mask of fury.
“What did you do to her?” my mother asks sternly.
I choke on my laughter. “What did I do to her? Do you see my cheek? She fucking attacked me. Plus, I’m not the one out here pretending like everything is fine and dandy.” I take a step back, my voice rising, drawing attention from bystanders.
I don’t care who sees or hears what I have to say. I’m past giving a shit now.
“I know you’re hurting, son, but you need to calm down. It was an accident. Kennedy didn’t mean to do it.”
I hate how calm she sounds, how dismissive to what happened to Jillian she is. Her voice is like ants crawling all over my skin, and I want to sink my nails into my flesh and itch.
“An accident is running into someone with your shopping cart. Spilling a glass of milk. What she did wasn’t an accident. It was murder and the fact that you can’t see that…” I clench my fist, ready to punch something, someone, anything. I’m boiling water, that’s bubbling over. “The fact that you can’t see that makes you a fucking disgrace. You don’t forgive the person who killed someone you love. It’s disgraceful and shitty, and you’re…” I back away needing to go somewhere else to escape this turtleneck of an event.
“Jackson, wait,” my mother calls after me with tears in her eyes, but her tears mean nothing to me, not when she can sit with the enemy and pretend that everything is all right. Not when she’d rather talk to the person that killed her daughter than her own son, who is drowning right in front of her.