“Zeke.” I hear Lurlene’s sweet voice. Then her hand touches my back, breaking the comforting silence.
“It was the loud popping noise that woke me,” I say, not deserving her comfort. I take a step forward until I feel her hand slip from my shoulder. “I crawled out of my bed and walked down the long hall to my parents’ room. It was dark but the moon was full that night. I’ll never forget its light shining in through their bedroom window. Blotches of darkness covered their white sheets. I could see Mom lying over Dad the same way she had done when I was scared during the fireworks. She wrapped her arms tight around me and shielded me from the loud thundering sounds and all the bright lights falling over me. She was holding my dad like that, as though she were trying to protect him. It was quiet. I remember that too, so fucking quiet. I looked to the left and that’s when I saw him, when I saw the gun in his hand, and right then, I knew what all that darkness was on my parents’ sheets. He lifted the gun, pointed it at me, and... ” I struggle for my next breath, my body sways, like I’m that scared, small kid back in that dark, silent room, detaching from myself. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t find my lightning. I couldn’t feel my body, and I knew that my parents were gone. They were dead, and knowing that it was all my fault, on that day, a part of me had died too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“No!” Tears fill my eyes blurring the vision of Zeke’s rigid naked back. I stand, listening to every agonizing word that he says. It’s not enough that his parents died that night, but the confession, sexually assaulted, maybe even physically abused, I never imagined anything so devastating. Body numb, senses shocked by guilt and the remorse, I forced him to tell me the truth. I need to this stop. I need to end this torment.
“No.” I reach out, turning him to face me. “No, baby.” I cradle his cheeks. His gold-speckled eyes damp with tears. I shake my head. I can’t take any of this back, nor can I make it go away. I know the truth. I pushed until he told me, and for that, I‘ll never forgive myself. “Hey.” I gently stroke his cheeks, willing his anguish away. “You listen to me. It wasn’t your fault.”
“No?” His eye flinches as the muscles in his jaw constrict beneath my palms. “Do you know what the bastard said to me before he blew his brains out?”
“Zeke.” I run my thumb along the soft whiskers on his face, catching a tear as it drops from his eye.
“You did this he said while he pointed that fucking gun at my dead parents. He said, you did this, you made me love you.” His lips curl around each word. “And then, the fucker shoved the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.” His eyes gloss over with transparent powerlessness.
“Zeke,” I whisper, desperately trying to get the image out of my head of that scared little boy who witnessed a man violently killing himself like that. “He was sick. He didn’t love you, not the way you’re supposed to be loved. Not the way your parents loved you, not the way I want to love you.”
“Fuck.” He grabs my wrists and pushes me against the door. His beautiful face cripples, deep lines striking around his wild eyes and tight mouth. “Did you hear what I just said? He killed them because,” his fingers dig into my arms, “because he loved me. My parents are dead,” he shouts in my face, “they’re fucking dead because of me!”
I tremble all over, seeing the shame, guilt, and blame in his eyes. He’s harbored all those feelings for years. Seven years old, this all happened when he was just a child. He has to know what that man did to him was wrong. Zeke has to know that it wasn’t his fault. Still, I understand. When something like this happens to a child and they don’t talk about it as an adult, it’s difficult for them to overcome the traumatic event. When it comes to love, Zeke’s stuck in that little boy’s state of mind, and he’s so afraid to leave it. In his heart, he truly believes his love is what killed his parents.
“Let me love you, Zeke. Please, give me the chance to prove to you none of that is true.”
“You want me to take your innocence,” he says, pinning me to the door. Eyes dark and dangerous, he glares down at me. His hips thrust forward. His hardness imbeds me. “Is that what you want me to do?”
“Yes.” I barely whisper the word, and before I can stop him, he locks my wrists together behind my back with one quick, strong hand. His other hand pushes down into my pants. He thrusts a couple of fingers so deep into me.
It’s rough, hard, and I cry out.