Abel’s urn sat there mocking me. My exact match so full of life himself that his every feeling came out, good or bad, calling me a traitor—a scathing word that killed me for so long—but words of a teenage boy diverging from his other half as he tried to be worthy to his only living parent. A man who didn’t deserve his loyalty.
But also the only parent he had left.
Why wouldn’t he see me as a traitor in that moment?
And being my vocally passionate half, what would he call me now if he were standing right here to catch me hiding out?
She was doing it. Every day she was living for us and I was hiding.
She loved me so damn much she’d give me whatever space I needed to do it.
I blinked, my eyes hazed over with unshed tears, but not enough to miss the flash of something familiar in the background. I backed up the video and caught sight of it again, hitting pause, the image frozen before me.
Right there.
Skates.
Tiny black skates with red flames on the side almost exactly like mine.
I didn’t have to wonder who got them for him. They had Mayhem written all over them.
Home.
I want to go home.