Page 74 of Dark Ink

Rian

I only answered my phone because I needed someone to yell at.

My head was aching, my body both freezing and burning, my fingers twitching for a lighter, a spoon, a needle. The best solution for coming down was shooting up again. Instead I’d flushed the shite I stole from Nick down the toilet. Eithne scared me enough that afternoon to not go out seeking more. I’d crossed a line, I saw that. Or at least, I told myself I saw that. For me it was all shades of grey, but for her I’d live in the black and white.

But I just needed to get rid of this itch. This drive. This madness I wanted so terribly to give in to. Beating up Stewart had helped. Beating up Nick even more. Verbal abuse wouldn’t be the same, but hell, it would be something.

“What sad story do you have about that fucker now, Liam?” I said without even so much as a “hello”. “Is he coughing up blood? Is he sweating through his bedsheets? Are his eyes swollen shut? Is karma a bitch yet?”

My toe tapped against the floor, the rain falling so heavily against the windows, my heart thudding in my chest so loud that at first I didn’t hear what my brother said.

“What?”

He repeated himself.

I laughed, because what I thought I heard sounded funny. So fucking funny.

“Did you hear me?” Liam asked, voice strained. “Rian, hey, did you hear?”

For some reason I couldn’t stop fucking chuckling. In the darkness of my bedroom, laid out and staring at the bars of shadow along the ceiling, my chest rose and fell with uncontrollable stutters. I tried clasping my hand over my mouth. It didn’t help.

“Rian?” Liam prodded.

“I obviously didn’t,” I finally said, snorting. “Because what I heard you say is that our dear father is dead.”

There was sigh. Or something else vaguely puritan. Disapproving. Holier than fucking thou. This made me laugh all the harder, because it was priceless coming from him: the older brother who rode in to save the day after the dragons had already burned down the whole goddamn village.

“Wait, wait,” I said, gasping for air. “Okay. Okay, I’m ready for it.”

There was a pause. Maybe a sad one. Let’s say a sad one. It’d be funnier.

“Ready for what?” Liam finally asked sadly, oh, so fucking sadly.

“I’m ready for you to tell me all about how he asked for me on his death bed,” I said. “Give me all the details of how he asked for forgiveness with his dying breath. What did he say about what a piece of shite he’d been? What a monster? What a barbarian he’d been to his youngest who dared not be as strong and as cold as him? Please, Liam, I can handle it. Tell me how I missed out on the chance of reconciliation as he called my name into the abyss.”

Liam exhaled slowly. He shouldn’t have been disappointed in me. He’d been too late all his life. I was just learning from my big brother’s example, now wasn’t I?

“Listen, Rian,” he said, sounding tired, as if he had a fucking right, “I just called to let you know about the funeral. And before you say you’re not coming, I know. Alright? God, I know already. I get it. Believe me, I get it.”

His words managed to kill off what was left of the bubbling giggles in my chest. I was left feeling empty, hollow. Drained.

“But I need to do this for me, alright?” he said. “I need to know I gave you all you needed to do the right thing. That I gave you every goddamn chance.”

“Fuck you,” I told him in a snarl, rage flooding in and feeling fucking good.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Liam said, a little resentment of his own slipping in. The Golden Boy going Red. “The funeral is going to be—”

“Fuck—”

“Two days from now.”

“—you.”

“At the farm.”

I was up off the bed. Pacing like a lunatic. Shouting into the phone.

“Fuck you, Liam!”

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