“But you need to understand one thing: you are not just a killer. You were my protector. You did what had to be done.”
“What had to be done? Mom, I broke their bones. I beat one of them to death.”
“How can that be right?” She stroked my hair. “Alex, life isn’t as neat as people like to pretend.”
“Sometimes you do terrible things to protect the people you love. You chose between them and me. You chose me.”
“And I’m grateful. But I don’t want this to eat you alive. You have to keep living.”
“Don’t let it ruin you.” I looked at her. Small, gray-haired, damaged.
My mother. The woman I saved. At the cost of another man’s life and my own peace. She hugged me.
I put my head on her shoulder like I had when I was a boy, and for the first time in a month I cried. Quietly. No drama. Just tears.
She stroked my head and whispered, “It’s all right, honey. You’ll be all right.”
But I knew all right was never going to mean what it used to. I had changed.
I had crossed a line you don’t uncross. Killed a man. Yes, he deserved it, but that didn’t change the fact.
I had made myself judge and executioner. And now I had to live with that for the rest of my days. The next morning Mom made breakfast.
I sat down at the table. She poured tea and smiled at me.
“Nice day out. Let’s go to the market, pick up some vegetables. I’ll make that soup you like.”
I nodded. “Sounds good.” We went out together and walked down the street. Neighbors waved and said hello.
Mom answered them, chatted about the weather, prices, local news. Ordinary life, plain and quiet. And I walked beside her thinking.
Maybe she was right. Maybe the only thing to do was keep living. Work, help her, build something ahead of me.
Not get stuck in the past. Not let it eat me alive. But deep down I knew the past wasn’t going anywhere.
It would always be with me. In dreams, in memory. Wade’s face. His screams.
The blood. I killed a man, and that was forever. Three months passed.
Summer ended and fall came in. I was still working construction, making decent money. Mom got stronger.
We lived quietly. Peacefully. The town stopped talking about the Crispins. Life settled back into its groove.
But I didn’t forget. At night I still woke up sweating. Saw the basement, the blood, Wade’s face.
Heard him screaming. Felt bone cracking under my feet. It didn’t fade.
If anything, it got sharper. Clearer. I started drinking. At first just a little in the evenings.
A glass before bed to quiet my head. Then more. Two glasses. Three.
Sometimes I drank at the construction site on lunch break. The foreman warned me, but I didn’t care. Mom noticed.
“Alex, you’re drinking every day. That’s not good.” I waved her off.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’m just taking the edge off after work. I’m tired.” She looked at me sadly.
“That’s not tiredness. That’s guilt. You can’t forgive yourself for what you did.” I said nothing.
Because she was right. I couldn’t forgive myself. Yes, Wade deserved it. Yes, he tortured my mother.
But I killed him. Slowly. Brutally. And part of me had wanted him to feel it. That thought wouldn’t let go.
One night I drank until I blacked out. Woke up on the kitchen floor.
Didn’t remember how I got there. Mom was standing over me. Crying…
