Page 1 of For Wrath and Redemption
PROLOGUE
JONAH
It’s rainingthe day they move the hospital bed into the living room.
The ever-present tension that already saturated the house grows heavier, tighter. It becomes haunting, thickening the air until I wonder if I’ll need oxygen, too.
Despite the rain crashing into my windows, I can still hear the monitors beeping through the floor and my mother’s sobs through the wall. I can’t close my eyes without seeing my older brother’s face, swollen and pallid and suffering.
Dying.
Alone.
It makes my chest ache with guilt. He isn’t used to being alone. Not like me.
Quietly, I climb out of bed and tiptoe down the stairs. I skip the ones that squeak, just like he taught me, and make my way on light feet to his bedside.
I stand inches from the hospital bed and run my eyes over him. His skin looks gray in the darkness, the circles under his eyes appearing crater-like. The outside light and the rain falling down the windows cast pockmarked shadows on his face. He looks like the moon, and he feels just as far away.
Then he opens his eyes, blue just like mine, and smiles. It’s a tired smile. Pained. It’s so different from the one in the photos hanging on thewalls. I don’t want this smile to replace the ones in my memories, but the change has already begun.
“Hey, bud.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” he lies, then winces as he scoots over and pats the mattress. “Climb up here.”
I laugh quietly. “I’m too big. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m dying. You won’t hurt me.” He pats the sliver of open mattress again. “Come on.”
I hesitate, and then the doctor’s words float into my mind.
Days. Two weeks, at most.
Carefully, I climb into the bed beside him. I lay my head on his chest and let him wrap his arm around me. I listen to his breathing. To his heartbeat. I don’t know what a healthy heartbeat should sound like, but something tells me it’s not like his. I don’t think breathing should sound this shallow, either.
Dying.
Days.
He’ll be dead soon.
I start to cry, silent tears slipping through my lashes. I try to control my breathing. I try not to sniffle or whimper, but my tears seep through the thin fabric of his hospital gown. He tightens his grip on me, and that makes me cry more. It’s a weak hold. Too weak.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “This is not your fault.”
I shake my head. He’s wrong. It is.
“It’s not. Do you hear me?”
“But Mom?—”
“Forget what Mom and Dad said. They’re wrong. This isnotyour fault. Sometimes bad stuff happens, and it’s nobody’s fault.”
Dad said not to cry in front of him. Mom said he doesn’t deserve to feel like a burden. We’re supposed to make his last days feel happy. We’re supposed to lie.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to stop crying. I try so hard.
