Page 5 of Misery and Ecstasy

Making sure she was eating.

Wetting her lips and tongue with a sponge when she got past the point of being able to drink on her own.

Putting Chapstick on her cracked lips.

Tucking her blankets tightly around her because her hands and feet felt ice cold to the touch.

He wasn’t the one sitting there in agony, every minute for the past week, witnessing her hallucinate and carry on conversations with our dead father.

Watching as her skin turned blotchy then pale then gray.

Learning what a death rattle is and being forced to listen to her as it sounded like she was drowning in her own mucus.

That alone is something I could have happily died without ever having knowledge of.

No.

Fuck this.

And fuck him for thinking he can leave the brunt of the pain to me and come only for the sympathy before disappearing all over again.

Standing, I drop my half-smoked cigarette onto the concrete and propel my feet toward my brother at a rapid pace. I don’t care about anyone in my way. If they can’t move quickly enough, they’ll become collateral damage.

Mitchell turns at the sound of a nearby gasp resulting from, I can only assume, the accelerated way I barreled into the room. The second his eyes find mine they widen in horror, just before I land a right hook to the side of his face. The action twirls his body around 180 degrees before he stumbles, ultimately landing on the floor.

With practically everyone frozen in shock, I seize the opportunity to roll him over and jump on top of him. I get two more punches in before I feel arms slide beneath mine and rip me off of my brother.

“Enough, Draven. That’s a fucking order.” Royce’s voice is loud in my ear. No doubt he’s fighting to make sure I hear him over the sound of the fury raging through me like an unforgiving river.

The entire bar is bathed in shades of red as I vaguely watch Atticus help Mitchell up off the floor while some of my other brothers let everyone else know the party's over. They all scurry out the front door, happy to put distance between themselves and Nancy Hoffman’s delinquent son, I’m sure.

“What thefuck,Mac?” Mitchell bellows from across the bar where Atticus led him.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.” My eyes narrow as I point my finger at him as though it’s the barrel of a gun, and I’m aiming to kill. “Howdareyou come here? Now. After all the hard work has been done.”

“She’s my fucking mother, too, asshole.” The audacity he must possess to dare try to rationalize his presencenow.

“Since when? Where the fuck have you been these past three years? You barely called her. You never came to see her!” My shouts mix with a pained roar that I’ve never heard come out of my body before. “You’re a sorry, fucking pathetic excuse for a son. For a brother.”

Royce’s grip doesn’t loosen one bit. He’s smart. He knows me, sometimes better than I know myself. If I would have had an ounce of room to move, I would have taken off after Mitchell all over again.

“Get him the fuck out of here, Atty. Before I kill him.” Breathing rapidly, Mitchell and I stare one another down. His lip is curled in disgust, like he thinks he’s better than me. Like he can’t believe I would behave this way as though he doesn’t know what I’m made of. “You think I’m joking, Mitchell? You’re not my brother. Not anymore. Fucking try me. If Ieversee your face inmytown again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

* * *

“Hoffman,” an officer calls from around the corner before coming into view. “You made bail.”

As if coming to blows with my brother at our mother’s funeral wasn’t rock bottom enough, the bender I’ve been on the past two weeks—ending with the brief, drunken, high-speed chase I led Gettysburg’s finest on last night before losing control of my bike—solidified it.

I don’t move. I knew I would make bail, just like I know what’s in store for me the moment I step foot out of this building.

Nothing fucking good.

I’ll be lucky if Royce doesn’t string me up in the cannery and beat me to death.

Or sic Stella on me.

She’s one of our Harlots. We can be a torturous and sadistic bunch when we need to be, but she’ll give us a run for our money any day of the week.

---