Page 65 of Heimlock

It’s been about an hour when Fynn gets a call. He shoots me a smile and walks outside. Rhuth must be arriving.

“Alright everyone,” I whisper-yell. “Time to get into place!”

I corral the guests, shushing the ones already a little drunk. Some giggle in anticipation. Everyone who loves Fynn and Rhuth is here, excited to celebrate Titus. Looking across the faces, my heart warms. Our family is growing, little by little; I love it.

“Where is my wife?”

Shocked whispers are shared among the crowd. Blood freezes in my veins. Spinning toward the front door, I quietly open it and step outside. Fynn’s frozen in place, phone held to his ear. His body vibrates with an unrecognizable emotion.

Then he collapses.

Terror rings in my ears as I rush over to pick up the phone. Pressing it against my ear, I listen to a man speaking. The world goes silent when he says, “… your wife is dead, sir.”

This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It’s a sick practical joke. Into the phone, I yell, “What do you mean she’s dead?! Where is she?!”

At my feet, Fynn curls into himself like a fetus. His chest isn’t moving. My brother has stopped breathing.

The man on the phone keeps talking, saying things I don’t want to hear. Dropping the phone, I pound on Fynn’s back.

“Breathe!” I plead. Not you too. Not you too.

Still, he doesn’t breathe.

I pound on his chest repeatedly, begging for him to breathe, until I hear the most beautiful sound of inhalation when he passes out.

The front door opens. One of Rhuth’s friends — Elsie, I think — pokes her head out the door. “Everything o—”

She sees Fynn prone on the grass, phone discarded beside me. The devastation painted all over my face. The doorknob rattles when her hand loses its grasp. She collapses with a sob. More heads poke out; more people cry.

The scene is unreal; a nightmare. The heart existing in my chest knows this is my new reality. Rhuth is gone. Fynn will probably be gone, too. If not in body, then in spirit.

Within one awful afternoon, I'm responsible for everything. My brother becomes a husk of himself, but it’s okay. I’ve been eager to return the favor since he helped me all those years ago.

The next few weeks, I was forced to numb my own anguish. To my dismay, Fynn was bereft and mostly useless, far more than expected. Everything became my responsibility — the funeral arrangements; running the Dragxi company; worrying about my brother killing himself. I slept in the bed with him for weeks, terrified of waking up to a dead body.

After the first year, I'd assumed he’d rally and try to move on. When he didn’t, I was optimistic about the second year.

By the third year, my loneliness was consuming; it was agonizing, watching him waste away. Nothing could get him out of the funk, no matter how much I cajoled or downright begged.

Toward year five, I struggled to feel any pity for him whatsoever. I was going through the motions while pretending everything was okay. Trying not to lose my mind when Fynn reminded everyone of what he lost, all the time. The way he wore his trauma like a medal, like he was the sole person experiencing suffering.

Sometimes, it pissed me the fuck off.

Sometimes, I wanted to scream that he wasn’t the only one who lost something.

I’ve lost my mother.

My childhood.

My innocence.

My eye.

My self-worth.

Rhuth.

My nephew.