Titus: Book Two of the Cantrell Brothers Series

Chapter Thirteen

Titus looked up at the ceiling, following the strange texture with tired eyes. The flat plane was a hawk and trowel design that had been installed as soon as his father and mother had taken full ownership of the Circle T. His mother had made the decision – a marital decision that had no effect on theirs or their children's lives. Yet here he was, staring at the hawk and trowel, wondering why on earth she had picked it.

It was strange, the patterning – not hideous but not beautiful either. Just rough. It was layered thicker in some places than others and twisted into countless more identical curves. All one big ocean, the ceiling was just a wall above his head that he had woken up to so many times before.

But he hadn't woken up today. There had been no need to. A person didn't have to wake up if they didn't go to sleep in the first place. Which was why he was here, just staring at the damned ceiling in a cold bed that hadn't been warmed by anybody other than him for a long time.

Turning onto his side, he came face to face with the other pillow right next to his. Just like his, it was white, thin embroidering the color of brown framing white cotton. But no matter how tasteful or elegant as some would call it, the pillow served no purpose other than just another cushion when he fidgeted in his sleep. It was just another useless object in his life that constantly mocked him.

“Fuck you too then,” he told the inanimate object, malice lacing a voice he barely recognized – a voice that had been screaming and shouting last night.

Titus looked down at his hands. Scabs were beginning to form on top of the multiple cuts he had endured late last night. Titus remembered how he had just been laying in bed, looking at the same ceiling as sleep evaded him like he was some type of plague. The pillows had been the exact same, the thin sheet covering his sweaty body as he tossed and turned but to no avail.

He hadn't been able to just lay there thinking about what would be happening in less than forty-eight hours. Instead, Titus had donned a pair of old, ratty shorts and had driven all the way to Napolm High School. Dew had been on the grass and had soaked through his shoes as soon as he had walked across the football field, moonlight illuminating his way.

The sticky, familiar feel of vinyl-covered nylon had cut into his bare hands, the gloves he had worn in high school having protected him back then but not last night. He had pushed that two hundred forty pound sled up and down the hill until he hadn't been able to anymore. As sweat and a blood had dripped down his back and arms, he had found some sort of peace – some sort of acceptance with what was going to take place.

But he would never take back his offer. He loved Anna too much to ever allow anything to happen to her – especially if there was something he could do to stop it. The useless pillow now forgotten, he flipped onto his back, clasping the back of his head with hands that stung with the slightest movement. The damned ceiling stared right back at him again, and Titus closed his tired eyes, finally ready to fall asleep.

The sound of the front door being unlocked had them popping right open again. Anna must be here. Luther had probably sent her in after noticing that his boss wasn't there at work today. Resounding quietly throughout the house, her soft footsteps had the intention of being quiet, but they weren't. The house was too still for allowing anybody to enter without alerting him with their squeaky floorboards – floorboards on steps that were creaking as Anna walked up them.

He immediately rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow, not caring that it was a childish act. His face hidden and body somewhat relaxed into that of a sleeping position, he lay stock still as the door was opened. The thick slab's hinges creaked, but Titus just lay still. He couldn't face Anna now – not with this weakness shrouding him.