haven ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟏

028. leaving

TWENTY-EIGHT—LEAVING
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THE AIR LEFT my lungs as soon as I opened my eyes. It had all been too much, so I'd just stood there, shoulders hunched forward and my hands covering my eyes that were leaking with tears. It was still surreal and in all honesty, it had happened faster than they showed in the movies. On the big screen, directors took time to choreograph every fight scene, where each person's leg was supposed to be, what their faces had to look like—hell, they probably made sure that every damn hair on their head stayed exactly where it was supposed to be. 

No. This was not a movie; it had never been so clear to me than it was now. This was not choreography, it was chaos. And it had just swept through my life, turning the world on its axis. 

I stayed there for a few more minutes, inhaling shaky breaths and struggling to do anything but breathe for the time being. I was barely under control of my emotions when I heard the front door creak open. 

"Sweetie? Why don't you come inside, we can get you cleaned up," my father spoke softly like he was sympathetic to the hellfire I'd just witnessed. Of course, I knew it wasn't sympathy I was hearing in his voice, it was pity.

My hands dropped from my face, the tears drying on my cheeks. I bent down and picked up Cade's baseball bat that had fallen from my grip and trudged to the door where my parents were waiting, nauseatingly gentle smiles on their faces. 

"That's it, El, hand me that bat, you're safe," my mother said, her smile faltering as she spotted the blood on the end. Snatching it away from me, she held it in between her thumb and forefinger, a sour expression twisting her aging features. "Honestly, Elda, your brother's favorite bat?" She mumbled, to which I shrugged numbly. 

"It's not like he's around to use it anymore, though, is he?" I deadpanned, walking away and aiming for the bathroom, where I could take a hot shower and collect my thoughts and wash off the dark blood that was still drying on my skin. 

Behind me, I heard her scoff. "Now, who's fault is that?"

My blood turned to an icy slush. My hands shook and I curled them into fists to keep from lashing out. My muscles tensed up. The air was charged. I opened my mouth and the words were surprisingly steady as I growled them out. "What did you just say to me?" I didn't have the guts to turn around—if I did, I wasn't sure I would be able to keep my hands from throwing a real punch for all the shit she'd put me through for my twenty-six years on this earth. 

"Ladies," Dad warned, but his efforts were proven futile when my mother chose to fight back. 

"Who's childish idea was it to bring up the idea of the CIA to a boy who had a bright future ahead of him?" She snarled, her voice getting louder as she stalked forward. "Who told him to pursue these impossible dreams of his when he should be at college getting a degree right now? Who, Elda?"

I whirled around, the momentary numbness melting into a fiery rage. "What do you want me to say?" I roared, vision going red. "That I'm sorry?"

"It wouldn't do much good anymore, don't you think?" She was all of a sudden in my space, her eyes leveling with mine despite the fact that she was shorter than my tall frame. 

"You don't think I know that?" I spat, my features etching an expression of fury. "You don't think I regret it every fucking day? That I think about him all the time? That I—"

"Of course you don't think about him all the time, you've got a criminal sleeping in his bed now! You have for months!" She huffed. My eyes hardly registered the movement of my father behind us, trying to calm us down without getting yelled at himself. But my focus shifted back to my godforsaken mother quickly, a new fire rising in my gut as she mentioned Bucky.