Page 55 of Psycho Boys

There's an itch underneath my cast I can't get for the fucking life of me, and it's beginning to piss me off. Or maybe I'm just looking for anything—even the smallest thing—to piss me off, trying to get my mind off what's happening tonight. I've been waiting for this moment for so long, and now that it's here, my anxiety has never been worse.

I sit up, retrieving the ruler from my nightstand. With meticulous care, I ease it between my leg and the cast, scratching the irritated skin as this small part of me begins to mend. Hopefully, tonight will mark a turning point, the beginning of healing the rest of my broken self. But only time will tell.

A soft knock echoes, followed by Ash's entrance. A shadow of sadness clouds his features. He doesn't sit but instead walks to the window, hands in his pockets, a heavy sigh escaping him in a painful exhalation. His head bows, his gaze fixed on the floor, an obvious weight pressing upon him—a burden he seems unable to find the words to tell me.

"What's troubling you, brother?" I ask, setting down the ruler, and the itch finally soothed.

He remains silent for a moment, then asks without looking at me, "Are you sure you're ready for tonight?"

"Ready to kill my father?" I reply, the casualness of my tone jarring even to my own ears.

Finally, he turns, nodding. "Yes," he says, another sigh escaping him. "Truly ready. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. You have to be certain, absolutely fucking certain." He sits, taking a deep breath. "And I don't just mean ready to end his life. I mean, ready for the emotional aftermath, the fucking wave of feelings that will crash over you afterward."

I move beside him, his words sinking in, striking a chord deep within my heart. My focus has been solely on revenge, on the act itself, neglecting the emotional consequences. Ash's struggle is evident, etched on his face, letting me know that he's clearly not okay.

"I'll be okay," I assure him, the words meant as much for him as for myself.

"It's not fucking easy, Dom. I'm struggling," he admits, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"You can talk to me, or Cali, or the others. Cali might have some helpful advice since she's used to this shit," I offer, forcing a smile as a knot of nerves tightens in my chest.

He shakes his head, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. "It's not that simple, Dom." His voice cracks, the weight of unspoken grief heavy in the air.

He looks out the window again, the city lights blurring through his tear-filled eyes. Silence hangs between us, thick and suffocating. The casual confidence I’d projected earlier crumbles, replaced by a chilling awareness of the enormity of what we’re about to do. The itch under my cast is forgotten, overshadowed by the far greater, deeper ache in my soul. Finally,I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. The gesture feels clumsy and inadequate, but it's all I can offer.

"We'll get through this together," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "We always have and we always will."

He leans into my touch—a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it speaks volumes. He needs this, this silent acknowledgment of the burden we both share, this unspoken promise of support.

"Tonight," he says, his voice low and strained, "tonight, we end this for you."

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine, seeking reassurance, seeking strength. I see not just my brother, but a reflection of my own fear, my own uncertainty. The certainty I’d feigned earlier evaporates, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable truth. We're both terrified. But we are also together. And that, I realize, is the only thing that truly matters. The only thing that will see us through the night and hopefully into a future where the ghosts of the past finally rest.

After spendingthe afternoon talking with Ash about how he’s been coping since killing his father, I’m finally ready to move forward with our plan to eliminate mine. I slip my hand into the pocket of my blue jeans, my fingers brushing the brass knuckles nestled inside. My crisp white shirt clings to my torso tightly hugging my bulging, colorfully tattooed biceps.

I chose white over black for several reasons, but primarily because I'm craving the sight of my father's blood staining me—an undeniable testament to his finality. Still, I tuck my loadedgun into the back of my waistband, keeping it close in case things go awry. As I put on my Boston snapback, I slide another pair of matte black brass knuckles in my other pocket, feeling fully prepared to end this.

Stepping out of my room and taking the short walk down the hall, I find the others in the living room getting high—where they always are, doing what they always do—caught in an unchanging cycle. It won’t be long until that changes. Our lives will be irrevocably altered once our parents—including Cali’s—are dead; they're the ones who set this all in motion. And we're going to be the ones who end it.

Cali spots me first, her captivating eyes sparkling with intrigue as she takes me in, her perfectly waxed brow arching. I walk closer, sitting on the arm of the couch beside her.

"White, huh?" she teases, trailing the tip of her tongue across her lips while eyeing my body in an obvious, intriguing manner.

"Yeah, just wanted to stand out," I reply with a grin, eliciting a laugh from Ash that brings a smile to my face after our earlier conversation. "Don’t worry, I’ve got a black hoodie to throw on once it’s all over."

Cali leaps off the couch, leaning down to kiss me fiercely, leaving a lingering sweetness on my tongue as she playfully pulls away.

"I’ll be right back, then we can head out," she winks before strutting away.

I turn to the three guys, who are transfixed by her bouncing ass as she walks out of sight. It’s as if they’ve never seen her leave before, and I can’t help but chuckle under my breath.

"So, who’s coming with us?" I ask, drawing their attention even through the thick haze in their minds and the smoke swirling above us.

They fall silent, and glancing at each of them, I quickly grasp why. Ash is too geeked up on coke, his jaw working likehe’s chewing gum, making him utterly paranoid and useless for tonight. Killian's eyes are drooping, a rolled-up bill in his hand as he preps to snort a line of crushed-up oxy, lost in a heavy nod from the downers, rendering him equally ineffective. And then there’s Five, grinning vacantly as he gazes out the window, his eyes glossy and bloodshot from the high-grade pot he stays smoking.

It's clear: all three of them are too fucking blasted to join us tonight.

"Alright then, Cali and I will handle it." I settle back down, quickly mixing a shot of heroin from my pocket, seeking a little liquid courage to fortify me for the night ahead.

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