Page 120 of Beat of Love
Oliveira hadn’t been the first man he’d killed.
But the others…
Somehow, they’d felt sanctioned. Justified.
Because back then, he’d been someone else.
Rafferty rose early and pushed his body through another punishing run, the kind that left his lungs burning and his thoughts too jumbled to hold. Yet he couldn’t outrun the demons.
Because they lived inside him.
By the time he stumbled into the kitchen, he was drenched in icy sweat, shoes caked in dirt, and too exhausted to care about the prints he tracked across the floor.
“Son?”
His father’s voice cut through the fog. His old man was seated at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, an open Bible before him.
“Pa … I … ah … fuck, Pa,” was all Rafferty could manage between gulps of air. He gripped the counter, legs trembling like reeds in a storm.
Then came the soft mechanical whirr of the wheelchair approaching.
And it undid him.
His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, breath hitching, heart breaking.
It wasn’t worth it.
All that self-righteous talk about making the world a better place by taking out monsters.
None of it was worth it.
Not his father’s legs.
Not Charlie’s life.
Not the wreckage he’d carved through his family’s hearts.
He pressed his forehead to the floor, fingers curled against the linoleum.
He wasn’t a hero.
He wasn’t even a man.
He was just human trash — no better than the ones he’d sent to hell.
On his knees, shoulders hunched, he dragged in huge, uneven gulps of air like a man drowning on dry land.
Drowning in his guilt. And self-loathing.
“Rafferty.” A hand, warm and gently settled on his shoulder. “I’ve got you, son,” Pa said, voice quiet but steady.
And somehow, those four simple words reached deeper than any absolution ever could. “I’m sorry,” he whispered — then choked on the words as they tumbled out again and again. “I’m sorry … I’m so damn sorry.”
His father remained quiet. Waiting him out.
Rafferty shifted to sit with his back against the cupboard, legs bent, arms limp over his knees. His father moved closer, the rubber edge of the wheel coming to rest gently against his mud-caked running shoe.
For a moment, they just breathed together — one ragged, the other steady.
