Page 84 of Irreversible

When I asked her why she even kept me, she explained that she was young and naïve, and thought it was meant to be.Her family had been religious; they raised her to believe in the sanctity of life and told her everything happened for a reason. At the time, she was falling apart, grasping for something to believe in, so she convinced herself the conception of a baby—a new life, a clean slate—was a symbol of redemption.

She named me Isaac.

Then, her family decided that sometimes bad things happen because of hidden sin, and they rejected her.

And there I was.

We were stuck with each other.

To top it off, I wasn’t an easy child to raise, and never met her expectations. Over time, I became a symbol of an event that ruined her life. A bad decision that put her in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A sin.

She was an ocean of PTSD and ruined dreams, and my presence was a toxic oil spill. We didn’t mix, and as a kid, I never had a chance.

“Well…” I let my eyes close again, pressing my fingers into the pressure points just above my eyebrows. “Now that I’ve dumped all my?—”

“It isn’t genetic, you know. That kind of evil. I don’t believe that.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that she so easily uncovered the fear that dogged me through life, but it feels kind of like she’s been rifling through the long-archived files of my brain.

“Okay.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Whether I believe it is a different story. Depends on the day. “Thanks.”

Mercifully, she drops the subject of my parentage, because I’ve gone way past my quota for dwelling on this bullshit. Myhead feels like that proverbial boulder was dropped right on top of it.

“Did Sara make music for a living?”

“She was a barista, actually, but that was just a convenience so she could be close to the adjoined cafe where she liked to play.”

“I can picture that for her. Sitting on a little corner stage under a light. Everyone stopping mid-conversation, mesmerized when she played her favorite song, and then running back behind the counter to make someone a half-caf nonfat iced mocha with a splash of sugar-free caramel.”

“Nailed it.”

“And that story of the jerk who made her stop playing for a while?”

“I’m sure you’ll be shocked to find out that was me.” Of course, I only said that to get her to back off. I’d spiraled into one of my self-loathing phases, and being around her innocent positivity just drove the knife in deeper. I’d moved out and needed to leave my childhood baggage behind. “Turned out all right, though. She found me again, once she was out on her own. Barged back into my life with the same enthusiasm and hounded me until I came to see her play.”

“Made you chicken pot pie.”

“That stuff was the shit.” Now my mouth really is watering. And, oddly enough, I feel lighter than I have since the day she made me my last chicken pot pie, walked out the door, and never came back.

Even while sitting here, chained to the floor.

Thanks for that, too, Everly.

“Isaac?”

I hum a response around the lump constricting my throat. All these memories… I don’t trust my voice right now.

“Thank you for sharing her with me.” Everly’s voice is softer, closer, like she’s entered the temple of something sacred. “I knew I liked her. I just wish I could have known her better.”

“I’m glad she had you to keep her company…at the end.”

I need to rest. To sit with my ghosts and be prepared to battle my way out of here. Because whether I believe there’s a chance I’ll get out in one piece or not, I still owe that bastard for taking my sister out of this world before her time.

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