And Caleb took it like he always did. I’d told Caleb a hundred times that not fighting back made it worse, that it pissed off Dad. Caleb needed to at least pretend to resist, give Dad the illusion he beat a rebellion out of him.
But Caleb wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction. He preferred to take a worse beating instead. Not that he got that many beatings, but when he did, they were…bad.
I shut my eyes, not wanting to see anymore, but still, the thud of flesh pounding flesh reverberated in my ears. I wanted to cover my ears to drown out the noise, but I was too tired for even that.
The sounds stopped. I would have breathed a sigh of relief except that I felt none. Instead, I was tired, empty, drained. I cracked my lids open to see Caleb.
My brother stood with his hand gripping the side of the carport to keep himself upright.
Idiot. He should be lying down, not standing. Dad only stopped when you were lying down. But Caleb’s eyes were distant. Maybe he was past thinking.
I closed my eyes again—only for them to spring open at the slam of the car door and the turning of the engine.
My dad was drunk, angry, and behind a wheel.
My panicked eyes flew to Caleb’s—we both knew. I laid sprawled in front of the car, not even a little to the side.
My dad revved the engine and sent the car squealing toward me.
Adrenaline surged through me, bringing me up to my feet even as Caleb darted in front of me like he was superman about to take the brunt of the hit, shielding me from harm.
Except Caleb was no Clark Kent.
Time slowed while as I watched the red convertible plow into Caleb. A scream tore from my throat, my body stiff with pain. Caleb’s body slammed into my left side, followed by the car ripping into my right.
I didn’t remember being flung through the air. Maybe I wasn’t. I could have crumpled to the ground instead. My eyes blurred when I opened them. Caleb laid in front of me, motionless. When I tried to scramble up, I collapsed back on the ground, pain shooting up through my sides. For a second, I couldn’t fill my lungs, my mouth opening and shutting in shock. My heart sped up, hammering in my chest, until I gasped.
I brought my trembling hands to my sides, my fingers probing. They came to a slick hole in my side and paused. I strained to examine my side without moving too much. It looked like when my femur broke in two when I was six, knifing through my skin. The hole looked exactly like my leg right after the doctor reset the bones before he cast it. Blood caked on my side like it hadn’t bled for a while.
I looked back at Caleb. He still hadn’t moved. Blood pooled around his body, and my heart thudded in dread. I tried to move cautiously, ignoring the gravel embedded in my arms as I crawled to Caleb’s side. My hands were wet. I looked down.
I shouldn’t have looked down.
Bright red coated my palms. I lost track of how many seconds I sat there staring at them, dread dripping into the pit of my stomach. I shook my head, wiping the blood off onto my jeans. Caleb was okay.
He had to be okay.
I reached toward his neck, hands shaking.
Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.
There was so much blood. Have a pulse. Please have a pulse.
Please, don’t die.
My hand trembled so much that I wouldn’t have been able to feel a pulse even if he had one.
My breaths came shallow and fast. My tongue was dry and thick, like a wadded-up paper towel shoved in my mouth.
I splayed my hand against his throat, desperate for movement, a small thump—anything.
Give me anything.
Caleb twitched, and I took a sharp breath but stayed still, my gut telling me not to move an inch. Instead, I willed him to live, forcing that will into every finger that touched his skin.
It didn’t make sense, but when someone looks like they’re dying in front of you, nothing does. My will was all I had left.
I knew enough not to move him, so I couldn’t see where he was bleeding from. I used my other hand to search for Caleb’s phone, easing it out of his side pocket, and called the police.
“My brother is dying. My dad drove his car into him.” My words were distant—robotic, even.
“No, he’s not here anymore. The car’s gone.” I hadn’t even noticed until the dispatcher asked the question. And I found I didn’t care about the answer, either. All that mattered now was Caleb.
“Hurry. He’s dying. I can’t feel a pulse.”
She asked for my address, she asked for my name. But when she asked if I knew how to do CPR, tears blurred my vision, my hand still on his throat as I shifted from kneeling to sitting cross-legged and turned away from his body.
“I can’t,” I said, my voice thick and distorted. “It hurts too much. I can’t.”
She said not to worry, they’d get there as fast as they could. But from her tone, I knew it’d be too late by then.
I dropped the phone and dragged my hand down to his chest, stretching the collar of his t-shirt down, some superstitious part of me refusing to lose contact with his skin. I slid my left hand to rest over the right and shifted my weight on top of them, crowding my knees even closer to his side.
My ribs ached, but when I started to pulse, the heels of my hands digging into his chest, black spots bubbled into my eyes. My ribs screamed in agony. I kept going, in uneven bursts of pulses, frantic I wasn’t doing it fast enough. Cursing myself for taking a break every few pulses. Knowing my weakness was killing him—if he wasn’t already dead.
Snot, tears, and blood
