I took one step up the stairs to the front porch and I could already hear the music, pounding through the floorboards and right through my tiny little skull.
All of my pain, that you put on my name
all of my doubt, and all of my shame
All of my guilt, my denial and fear
all of my hatred and all of my tears
All of the time that I couldn't go home
all of the times that I froze all alone
All of the sadness all of the lies
all of the shadows that blackened my eyes
All of the servants, who cheated, who stole
all of the colours from the depths of my soul
All of the wounded, that you left for dead
now creep in the corner, they're all in my head
All of the dreams that you made nightmares
all of the silence, deafening stares
All of the ships who can't carry loads
you wrecked in anger, along distant shores
All of this would have been
all of this could have been yours
All of this should have been
all of this could have been yours
And there at the end a deafening smash of glass and I dropped everything in the rain and dragged myself up the rest of the steps and threw myself through the door, slamming it behind me, charging down the hall and up the stairs to Caleb's wing, fearing the worst and finding the best, as he's sitting in his favourite chair, slouched down, shoulders drawn, knees bent, legs splayed for days as if he's been there for hours if not years, taking up more space in the chair than I ever would, tears streaming down his face, in a sea of broken glass and whiskey, the song hissing and catching gently from the speaker in the corner, and a ruined photograph of me on the wall across from him, frame shattered, hanging by a thread.
The ballerina photograph, Cole's magnum opus, the copy that Caleb took back when he claimed his rooms in the house here on the point, chosen for the view of the exact spot where I stand at the edge of the cliff and talk to his nemesis and his brother at the same time, saying much of the same things in so many different ways.
It's no wonder I'm crazy.
GET OUT. He shouts it so I don't ignore it. I can't. I heard him loud and clear.
Make me. I square off in the door. Let's do it. Let's fight to the death. Winner takes everything and keeps all the boys besides.
Radiohead starts playing and I waver. We share the same playlist. Street Spirit. Aw fuuuck.
Just go, Neamhchiontach. Please leave me to my misery. Everything's okay.
There it is. The adult in the room, reassuring the child. And I lose it.
Yeah. Heh. Looks okay from here, Diabhal.
Go, Bridget.
Oh, fuck off.
He gets up and all my courage tries to leave through goosebumps on my skin. What's left is a transparent shell over scratchy bird-bones that he could snap like matchsticks and that fear turns me to ice, leaving me indistinguishable from the broken glass that surrounds us.
I step forward so he can't close the door in my face and instead he bends his head down so we are eye to eye and I have a fleeting memory of being held up by my throat while my heart thudded a beat to match a rhythm we had no business keeping and so while he wasn't looking I gave it away.
LEAVE.
NO! I stomp for good measure and he laughs incredulously, dragging his hands down his face.
You're taking your life in your hands-
I am your life. I'm not worried.
He bounces a finger in the air, pointing and then second-guessing himself, laughing once more.
Yeah, and that will be the death of me.
Of everyone.
Exactly.
I miss life before, Bridget. I miss my brother. I miss it when we didn't play these games-
We've always played these games, Diabhal.
How many times do you want me to say I'm sorry? How many times do you need me to say I love you? How many times do you think I've wished I was a better man, and had said and done everything different in order to make this all turn out the way it should have?
None.
He pushes in closer, blotting out the light, filling up the space around my periphery with blackness and rage, growing so large he sucks all the air out of the room, out of my lungs.
You're the monster, Bridget. Don't you ever forget that.