Page 27 of Tortured Eyes
My feet push me upright, and I dust off my clothes, hand reaching for him again.
“Get up, father.”
He doesn’t, so I lift his body, wrapping my arms under his armpits to pull him to his feet. He can do this when I’m gone. Spend a fucking eternity chastising and hating me, himself, and the life we’re in if that’s what he needs to do. But for now, we need to honour this body and bring it home to rest.
“Help me lift him,” I murmur, moving him to stand. The pressure of his weight on me makes my own legs buckle a little until he finally regains his own stability. He throws a snatched glance my way, his hands wiping under his eyes to shed the last of his tears.
“Fuck you, Logan.”
I nod and swallow the years’ worth of responses I have for that because he can have this one. He deserves to vent. All this is because of me, because of what I have been doing. Wrong place and wrong goddamn time maybe, but if it wasn’t for me in that room, Nate would never have been there in the first place.
“Yeah. But later.”
The snarl of disapproval I know so well damn near infiltrates parts of me I thought I’d condemned to hell. Doesn’t stop him pulling in a long, deep breath and waving me over to him, though, or attempting to wrap his arm around me when I get there. I still in his hold, not fucking sure how I feel about it, or him being this close to me.
“What the fuck did I do wrong with you, Logan?” he mumbles, pressing my head against his. “He’s gone, and it’s my fault.”
I back off, shirking him from me, and glower. His fault? Fuck him. If anyone’s taking the blame for this, it’s me, not him. He can take his self-serving ego and bruise it on his own if he wants, but he’s not getting a damn shred of sympathy with regard to our issues from me. Whatever I am, and wherever we are as a father and son, has nothing to do with what’s just happened.
I walk and lift the blanket off Nate, shrugging his shoulders up into my hold and dragging him out of the car. This is all that needs doing, and then a conversation about what comes next. Nothing else. No discussions about fatherly love, or lack thereof. No fucking spitting and cursing. Just this, and then I’ll go and get on with what needs doing.
Eventually, he gets the idea and starts helping me by grabbing hold of Nate’s legs, hauling the dead weight up to keep him off the ground. My insides lurch at the vision as we keep moving. He’s sallow in our hold, blood and gore still open and crusting at his neck. My father doesn’t even look. He keeps his eyes up, both of them fixed on me as if he’s trying to contain something he wants to let out until we finally reach one of the west wing’s guest bedrooms.
“Who was it?” he mutters as he heads into a bathroom.
He comes back out a few minutes later with a bowl and washcloth and then starts stripping Nate’s clothes.
“I have them both.”
“I didn’t fucking ask you that. I asked who it damn well was,” he roars.
My neck cricks, hands trying to keep a fucking grip on reality rather than let this turn into an argument. “Does it matter? I’ll deal with it. You deal with this.”
A hushed silence settles over the room for a few minutes, as he continues pulling every piece of clothing from Nate’s skin. I watch him do it, watch the way he treats each limb, each muscle, with the respect it deserves until he begins washing the body down. They’re the softest hands I’ve ever seen him use, reverent even. It makes me think of Samuel for a minute, of the way he worships and adores so easily. Soft hands. Calm tone. An ease of nature that none of us own in any way. Fuck knows what he’d think of all this, or of me.
I sneer and keep looking at Nate, shoving the thoughts away. I don’t give a fuck. He can run around in his priestly, little world pretending life isn’t what it is as much as he likes. This shit here, this dead body, is proof that the world is cold and dark and treacherous at best, criminally fucking insane at worst. What the hell does he think a God can do about that? Nothing. Not one goddamn thing.
A long breath ricochets in the space as my father wipes the last of the dried blood from my uncle’s neck wound. “My fucking brother, Logan. You make sure it fucking hurts. You make them scream for what they’ve done. Every fucking pain you’ve got to give, you put it into them. Use them.” I nod, running my teeth over my lower lip as he keeps cleaning. He dips the washcloth in the water, more red seeping into the already crimson liquid. “You take all that hate and vengeance you’ve got for me, and you shove it down their fucking throats.” His voice chokes on the words, unshed tears turning his eyes to glass orbs again. “Make it slow. Fucking torturous.”
A few more minutes go by with no more words spoken. There’s no need for any now. That’s all I needed from him, permission to do what I always intended anyway. I think back on the tapes I’ve seen, the visions of what he could do to those who crossed him years ago. Too old now, though. Too changed. There's a new generation for that.
“Where’s Carter?” he asks.
“Doing as I’ve asked. Standing guard.”
He growls lightly and rounds the bed, moving Nate’s body so he can grab hold of the sheets.
“Good. Tell him to enjoy it. I’ll deal with Fia.”
I snarl and back off a step, wondering why the fuck he didn’t just do that ten years ago. We wouldn’t be here now if he had. “Go bring Gabby in here,” he says, wiping the last of Nate’s blood up and pulling the sheets over him. “He’s ready for her now.”
I leave to get her and look around the house, seeing it for the first time in years. Nothing’s changed. Still perfectly presented, still perfectly poised to show that wealth they’ve amassed. My gaze flicks to the study as I pass it, remembering the last argument we had in there. I left that day, got on a fucking plane and went straight to Vico. My father said I could go to Hell if I wouldn’t abide by Carter’s rule. I wasn’t welcome. Get out. Don’t come back.
“Logan?” My mother comes into the space behind me. I turn and look at her, taking in the clothes and the weak smile she’s aiming for. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she says, reaching for me. I back off a step, frowning. Too fucking close. This is all too goddamn close.
“Where’s Gabby? She can go up now.”
“Please, Logan,” she continues, still trying to get closer. “We need… I need you to be-”
