Chapter 66

The first thud comes just as I've closed my eyes for the night, praying for a moment of peace in my slumber. I ignore it, hoping it's just in my head.

The second thud happens a few seconds later, and I sigh, resigned to my fate as I push the covers to the side and slip out of bed.

"Where the fuck are you?" Grandpa yells, and I slowly, carefully make my way downstairs.

It's two a.m. I'd spent the majority of the night looking for him. I'd driven through and around town, using a flashlight to search every ditch, every dumpster, every gutter. I only found him once I'd given up for the night and returned home. He was slumped against the steps leading to the porch, and I questioned if he'd been there all night. If I'd somehow missed him. I guess I'll never know.

It was less than ten minutes ago since I left his bedside after he fought me tooth and nail the entire way to his room.

I thought I was done for the night.

Clearly, I was wrong.

I barely make it to the living room before he charges at me, his shoulder hitting me square in the gut, pushing all the air from my lungs when I crash into the wall behind me.

"Grandpa," I groan, trying to catch my breath. I wasn't prepared for the instant onslaught. My mistake. The sharpness of the pain slices through me, spreads from my stomach, and up to my neck. "Grandpa, it's me. It's Jace."

But he doesn't hear me.

Forearm pressed to my throat, his fist collides with my ribcage, winding me completely, and I fold in on myself. Earn a knee to the gut. I cough, almost choke on the blood that pools in my mouth. He grabs me by the neck, forces me upright, and I close my eyes—a momentary lapse in judgement on my part, because he clocks me right in the chin, forcing the blood to spray from my lips.

He's never hit me in the face before. It's always been my torso. He's on a mission tonight, his anger at a level I've never experienced before. Hands fisted on my collar, he tugs me to him, his face an inch from mine. "A life for a life," he seethes, and I force myself to remember that it's not me he sees when he's like this. It's not me he's fighting. It's not me that's built this rage inside him.

It's not me.

It's not me.

It's not me.

He rears back, and I gasp for air, grateful it's over. But it's not. He slams his forehead right into my eye, and I see stars, so many of them. Silver stars, moons, and lightning bolts flood my vision, and I don't have time to react before he spins me by my shirt, turning me slightly, and I lose my footing as he pushes me away, then tackles me. I fall backward, my back crashing against something hard. Glass shatters, rains down on me as I crash to the floor, covering my head to shelter myself from the downfall of glass. He's pushed me into the display cabinet, one that held his memories of before. "Stop, Grandpa," I beg, and it's the first time I've ever asked this of him. Still, it's not enough for him to slow. To stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

But he doesn't. He only doubles down, straddling my waist as his hands circle my neck. Shards of glass crunch beneath our weight, and I can't see out of one eye. I'm choking, gasping for air, but I force my limbs to remain still. Force my mind to take it.

Because I can.

And he can't.

But I swore I'd never let him take me to the ground, because if he did, I knew he would kill me.

"Grandpa," I choke out and hope that's enough.

I'm not him, I want to say, but my need for oxygen drains out of me faster than I thought, faster than I'm ready, and the only sound that falls from my lips is silence.

Darkness looms, hanging over me, and then… then he releases his hold, and I gasp for air. Pain ricochets through every inch of my body, through every muscle, every organ.

"Grandpa," I groan. "Stop now, okay?"

I barely make out the glint from the shard of glass he's fisting before it makes contact with my throat. I freeze. Solid. Unable to breathe. Tears well in my eyes as he pushes it further, leans down until his face is an inch from mine. "A life for a life, Isaac."

A sob escapes, and my eyes drift shut, releasing liquid agony down my temples. "Enough, Grandpa," I whisper.

He gets even closer, seething, "What the fuck did you say, kid?"

"I said enough," I beg.

"Fucking pussy."

I gather all my strength and all my weaknesses. All the rage and anger that had been building for days…

Something's wrong with me…

For the first time ever, I squeeze my hands between us and push. Hard. "I said enough!" I yell, sitting up. Then I stand, slowly, my body screaming for some form of reprieve. But I ignore its cries. Its pleas for help. I look down at my grandpa, now lying on the floor, on his side. He looks so weak now, so old and frail and… pathetic. "How much more do you expect me to take?" I scream. "I can't fucking do this anymore!"

"Fuck you!" he groans, rolling to his back, his arms out at his sides. His fists unfurl, releasing the shard of glass… and there's blood in his palm. So much of it.

I drop to my knees beside him, wiping the tears from my eyes. "Grandpa," I cry, ripping off my shirt and using it to stop the bleeding. I hold his hand to me, checking the wound every few seconds, but there's so much blood—the same blood that flows through my veins, that makes up who I am. "Grandpa…"

I swallow the ache in my throat, bury it beside the pain in my chest, and run to his bathroom to get a towel. I use the towel to stop the bleeding and tie my shirt around his wrist. "I'll be right back," I tell him, my heart pounding in my chest.

He groans in response, and I run to my room, grab my phone, and call Jonah on the way back down.

It's the middle of the night. There's no way he'd answer.

Fear wraps around my throat, squeezes hard.

Jonah answers within seconds, his voice cracking from sleep. "Jace?"

"Is your mom there? My grandpa's hurt, and he's bleeding, and I can't make it stop and I don't know what to do."

"We'll be right there."

He hangs up, and it feels like forever before headlights shine through my window. I leave Grandpa's side long enough to unlock the door and return to him. He's still breathing, still moaning, and I take his bleeding hand in mine. "Help's here, okay?"

"No people in the house, Jace."

"I know, Grandpa. I'm sorry."

Jonah opens the door, his eyes wide at the picture in front of him. "Jesus, Jace," he whispers, then gets pushed forward by his mom, Connie, who enters after him.

Connie takes stock of the surroundings before her pitiful eyes land on me. "His hand is cut," is all I can say.

She nods, swallows, and then approaches us quickly before dropping to her knees, placing her medical bag between us. "Hi, Marty," she says, her tone the only calm amidst the storm. She strokes his hair, seeing him for the man he once was and not the man he is today. "I'm going to take a look at your hand, okay?"

Grandpa groans in response.

Connie switches her focus to me. "And then I'm going to take a look at you."

"I'm fine," I lie.

Glass crunches beneath Jonah's shoes as he approaches, squats down beside me. He settles a hand on my shoulder, but he doesn't speak.

And I get it.

There's nothing either of us can say to make my lies turn to truth.

Nothing is fine.

It hasn't been for a very, very long time.