My ears turn cold from the October chill, but the rest of my body is still on fire from the fight.

She looked at me just like my father always did. As if everything I do is wrong.

I bottle up what’s inside me—the anger and this need I can’t explain. Something inside of me wants to self-destruct, wants to make messes, and wants to do the things others won’t do.

I don’t want to hurt people, but the more time that passes, the more it feels like I’m trying to crawl out of my head.

I want chaos.

And I’m tired of being powerless. I’m tired of him keeping me down.

I tried to do the hard thing today. The thing no one else would do but had to be done.

And she’d looked at me just like him. Like there was something wrong with me.

Tossing the shovel in the car, I race down the driveway and make my way to the only place I can think of.

St. Killian’s.

Pulling up outside the old cathedral, I keep the headlights on and walk around to the side, starting to dig the hole. The dog hadn’t had a collar, and it can’t stay exposed long enough for me to find its owner, so I have to bury it.

And this is the one place I like, so it makes sense to do it here.

After digging the hole about two feet deep, I return to my car and open the back door, hearing notifications from my cell phone up on the front seat.

The guys are probably wondering where the hell I am.

I was supposed to go home and collect our stock of toilet paper, spray paint, and nails for some Devil’s Night pranks. The same boring shit we always do before we go get drunk at the warehouse.

I cradle the dog in my arms, leaving him wrapped in the blankets, and carry him to the hole, kneeling down and gently placing him in.

The blood had soaked through the towel, and my hand is stained red. I wipe it off on my jeans and then take the shovel again, filling in the hole.

When I’m done, I stand there, leaning on the long wooden handle of the shovel as I stare at the mound of fresh dirt.

You’re weak.

Nothing.

Stop pissing me off.

I’d said the same things to her that my father says to me. How could I do that?

She isn’t weak. She’s a kid.

I’m angry at my father, and I’m angry that she pulls at me as much as she does. Ever since we were little.

And I’m angry that I grew up so pissed off about everything. There’s not much that makes me feel good.

But I shouldn’t have hurt her. How could I have said those things? I wasn’t him.

I let out a breath, seeing the cold steam expel from my mouth. It’s freezing out here, and the chill finally seeps into my bones, reminding me that I’d left her. Alone. In the dark. In the cold.

I charge up to the car, throwing the shovel in the back and grabbing my phone, checking the time.

An hour.

I left her an hour ago.

Climbing in, I start the car and put it in reverse, backing up and turning around. Slamming into first, I peel out of the clearing, down the old dirt road, seeing the cathedral disappear in the darkness in my rearview mirror.

I speed down the highway and through the community gate, turning into Grove Park Lane and racing to the end, where St. Peter’s Cemetery sat.

Rika had dived into the woods, coming into the cemetery through the back, but I just drive in, knowing right where to go.

Her father’s headstone sits not far from my family’s tomb. He could’ve afforded something that grandiose, too, but Schrader Fane wasn’t a pretentious asshole like the men in my family. A simple marker was enough and all he deemed appropriate according to his will.

I drive down the dark, narrow lane, nothing but trees and a sea of gray, black, and white stones to my left and right.

Stopping at the top of a small hill, I park and turn off the car, already spotting what I think is a pair of legs lying on the grass a ways down.

Jesus.

Racing down the grass in between headstones, I see Rika lying over her father’s grave, curled up and tucking her hands into her chest.

I stop and gaze down at her sleeping, for a moment seeing that baby from so long ago.

Kneeling down on one knee, I slide my hands underneath her body and lift her up, so small and light.

She squirms in my arms. “Michael?” she says.

“Shhh,” I soothe. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she protests, reaching up to hook a hand over my shoulder with her eyes still closed.

“Neither do I.”

I spot a stone bench a few yards back up the hill and carry her, guilt racking through me over how cold her skin is.

I shouldn’t have left her.

Sitting down on the bench, I keep her in my lap as she lays her head against my chest, and I hold her close, trying to warm her or do anything to make her feel better.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” I admit in a raspy voice. “Your scar isn’t ugly.”

She slides her arms around my waist and presses close, shivering. “You never apologize,” she states. “To anybody.”

“I’m not apologizing.” I shoot back, kind of joking.

I am apologizing, actually. I feel bad, but I have a hard time ever admitting I did anything wrong. Probably because my father never fails to let me know anyway.

But she’s right. I never apologize. People take the shit I dole out, but not her. She ran away from me. In the dark. Into a cemetery.

“You got a lot of guts,” I tell her. “I don’t. I’m just a coward that picks on kids.”

“That’s not true,” she replies, and I can tell there’s a smile in there somewhere.

But she doesn’t see what I see. She’s not in my head. I’m a coward, and I’m mean, and I feel so fucking aggravated all the time.

I tighten my hold on her, trying to keep her warm. “Can I tell you something, kid?” I ask, a lump swelling in my throat. “I’m always afraid. I do what he tells me to do. I stand and speak, or I stay silent, and I never say no to anything he wants. I never stand up for myself.”

I told her she was weak. But it was me. I’m weak. I hate who I am. Everything gets in my head, and I have no control.

“People don’t see me, Rika,” I confide. “I only exist except as a reflection of him.”

She tilts her head up a little, her eyes still closed.

“That’s not true,” she mumbles sleepily. “You’re always the first person I notice in a room.”

My eyebrows pinch together in sadness, and I turn my head away, afraid she can hear my heavy breathing.

“Do you remember when your mom made you and your friends take Trevor and me hiking with you last summer?” she asks. “You let us do everything. You let us get close to the edge of the cliff. Climb boulders. You let Trevor swear…” Her fingers curl into my back, clutching my T-shirt. “But you wouldn’t let us go too far. You said we needed to save our energy for the return trip. That’s how you are.”

“What do you mean?”

She inhales a deep breath and then exhales. “Well, it’s like you’re saving your energy for something. Holding back,” she says, nestling into me and getting comfortable. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Life is one-way, and there is no return trip. What are you waiting for?”

My chest shakes for a moment, and I stare down at her, her words hitting me like a truck.

What am I waiting for?

The rules, the restraints, the expectations, and what was considered acceptable were things that held me back, but they were all things of other people’s design. Other people’s restraints. Other people’s rules and expectations.