Page 62 of Wrath

I hear my dad murmur something sympathetic.

They end up telling me Miller has motherfucking epilepsy. It’s the childhood kind that people outgrow. It started when he was a little kid and happened last when he was in sixth grade. His mom is shocked that it happened tonight.

“Do you know if he…didanything?” she asks. “Anything strange? Did he drink alcohol?”

I can barely breathe past my tight throat as I tell her that Idon’t think he did.

There’s a brief discussion about Suzanne coming home, but Carl seems to nudge her toward staying with him. They’re in Charlotte, North Carolina, and they’ve planned to be away until this coming Thursday. In the end, it’s decided that Suzanne is going to contact the on-call person with DG’s neurologist’s office and see what they think.

“Do two things,” Suzanne tells me.

She tells me to get a pulse-ox monitor, which monitors the amount of oxygen in a person’s blood, from the drawer of the kitchen desk and put it on his finger.

“Text me what the numbers are, and keep on checking.”

She tells me what they should be—because she doesn’t know I know about these sorts of things—and I reassure her that I’ll watch out for him.

“Also,” she says, “you can’t let him drive. Not anywhere. I don’t think he would, but wrestle his keys from him if you have to. Will you do that?”

“Sure thing.”

She still sounds worried when they hang up. DG is still sleeping, and he’s breathing; I check that before I jog downstairs to get the pulse ox.

Geez, he has this at his house. He has his own personal one—a small, finger-sized kind. I don’t like it. Fuck, I fucking hate it when I put it on his finger and his eyelids lift open.

“You okay?” I rasp. “You want some water?”

He falls right back to sleep. I’m relieved to see the numbers look okay. I text his mom, and she agrees.

‘Just check it every hour for a few, please’

‘I will. I’ll text after each time.’

Normal moms, I assume, care about their kids a lot, and want to know if they’re okay. I don’t want to leave her hanging.

‘I’ll watch him all night. It’s not a problem. I’m not even tired.’

‘That’s so sweet of you, Ezra.’

The hell it is.

I set the phone down and go back to my bed. It’s pretty low to the ground, so I have to crouch down on my knees beside if I want to look at him up-close. He seems okay. Just sleeping. I notice he’s barely moved and figure he’s worn out from the effort of the seizure. That shit can make you pretty tired, from what I know of it. He’ll probably sleep all night, and he might still be tired tomorrow.

I tuck the covers around him again and brush the hair off his forehead again, just because I like to feel the warmth of his skin. My throat tightens when I think of how I sent him out of my room. He was pissed off at me. Did I hurt his arm when I grabbed it? I want to look, to check for bruises, but it’s tucked under the covers. I don’t want to wake him.

I go around the bed and sit on the opposite edge, cover my face with my hands. I’ve been fucking with him. Christ. I just…toy with him. Because he’s such a good boy. Because he seems so perfect.

I wanted to break him.

I should go down to the bridge and tie a rope around my feet and fucking jump off. What if this is my fault? I upset him. I’ve been…hurting him. Every night. Yeah, I suck his dick and make him come, but it’s all twisted up and shitty. I make sure it’s shitty for him. So he can’t enjoy it.

I can’t move for what feels like a long time. As I sink into it. As I breathe it in and choke on it. As I ache under the weight of my own sadism and hurt from knowing I hurt him. I hurt his arm, I hurt his feelings, and I’m so damn scared he’ll die or something.

I don’t know what to do.

I think of another Ezra who might cuddle up to him now. Maybe the same one who would have treated him nice and beenhis friend—told him, if nothing else, that I’m an ally. That I’ll keep his secret. That it’s all good.

But I don’t think I know that person. Maybe in the past…

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