HIDING - every scar has a story

28. The hole.

{Cary}

Cary's father was gone when he got home—gone for a couple weeks to teach at some important university or something. Beverly told him this while scrambling eggs for dinner in the kitchen.

Cary dropped his coat and backpack in the corner, feeling twenty pounds lighter. The eggs smelled like they were burning. He moved her aside. "Mom, let me do that."

Beverly drew a stool up to the counter and pulled her glass of wine towards her. "The nanny is upstairs with Liam. Phillippa. She speaks very good English, you know. Your father would not have someone foreign speaking bad English to his son." She giggled and Cary wondered how many glasses she had poured before he came. In Conall's absence, she was like a planet missing the gravitational pull of its sun.

He took the eggs off the heat and dug in the bread box for something to make toast with. He plated the meal with a garnish of parsley and presented it to his mother, relaxing his face in a smile. "Ta-dah."

She giggled again, then spun off her stool and across the kitchen to flick on the stereo for some dinner music.

They were in the middle of eating when she caught his wrist. She turned his arm over, pushing the sweater sleeve to his elbow, exposing the cuts. "What is this, Ciaran? What were you trying to do?"

Cary met her eyes, mouth shut, his tendons jumping as he clenched his fist.

"You promised," she said. "You promised me you would stay."

He jerked free. "I am."

She was pale, her eyes boring into him. "So what was that then—a mistake? A little joke to scare your mother?"

Cary got up and scraped his meal into the garbage, his shoulders tense as stone. He was done anyways. "No. Not a joke." He should have kept his mouth shut, but since he was already bleeding he thought she couldn't hurt him any worse.

"Did you ever think we could go?" he asked. "Every night could be like this, just the two of us and Liam." He held still, his fingers curled over the cool metal edge of the sink, listening to her silence while the music crooned.

"You want me to leave my husband. Your father. Our home." Her soft, cold voice made him turn and look. Her cheeks were flushed and the tips of her teeth showed under her sneering lip. "Let me tell you something, Ciaran. Your father could have put you out with the garbage. He could have turned us out into the street. You should be grateful he saw more in you than a baby-killer."

Cary hands flew up, like her words were shards of glass thrown in his face. "Mom," he gasped. "Stop. I'm sorry."

"You should be." She got down unsteadily from her stool and swayed out of the kitchen.

Cary put his fingertips against his eyelids, where he felt the prick and burn of tears that couldn't fall. He stayed still, trying to breathe. Of course she could still hurt him. She knew all his secrets.

He left the dishes and climbed the stairs. Liam's door was open, but he didn't turn his head to look. Instead, he went to his room and climbed out the bedroom window.

The shingles were rough under his palms. He imagined sliding forward to the edge of the roof, then kicking off into the sky, leaving the dead weight of his body and everything behind.

He grabbed the window frame with one hand. For a second that had felt so real, he thought he was going over. He hung on tight and swung around to drop back into his bedroom. There was a reason he should stay—if he could just remember what it was.