Chapter 1: Blood on the Concrete

My sister killed herself right in front of me, taking my little nephew with her as she jumped from the roof of the rundown apartments in Maple Heights.

The memory of that day will haunt me forever—the way her body fell, the scream that never made it out of my throat, the way time stretched and then snapped back all at once. The sight of my nephew’s tiny hand clutching hers as they plummeted is burned into my brain forever. It’s something I’ll never be able to shake.

The blood that splattered across the concrete hit me in the face.

It was warm, sharp, metallic—the smell punched me before I could even process what I was seeing. I blinked, but the red stayed, stinging my eyes and turning the world into a blur of crimson and gray. I just stood there. Frozen. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

I lunged forward like a madman. But all I saw was her face—relieved, almost peaceful—as she smiled for the last time.

There was something almost peaceful about her expression, a strange kind of freedom I’d never seen in her before. It cut deeper than any wound. Knowing that she only found peace in her final moment. That smile—so small and sad—will haunt me for the rest of my life.

My brother-in-law showed up late, standing beside me. There wasn’t a hint of grief in his eyes. Just a desperate attempt to distance himself, like he wanted to disappear from the scene.

He stood there, shifting from foot to foot, like he couldn’t wait to get away. His hands fidgeted in his pockets, eyes darting everywhere but at the bodies. All he cared about was getting out of there.

“It was windy today. I never told your sister to go up to the roof and hang the laundry,” he said, letting out a sigh and flicking his hand dismissively. “This has nothing to do with me.”

His voice was flat, almost rehearsed, like he’d been practicing that line in the mirror. He didn’t even look at me—just stared off into the distance, already checked out.

I spun around, glare sharp enough to cut.

My jaw clenched so hard it ached. My fists balled up, nails digging into my palms. I wanted to scream, to punch something—anything to make the numbness go away.

“Do you take me for a fool?” I snapped. “Who the hell hangs laundry outside when it’s pouring?”

My voice cracked with rage. It echoed off the brick walls, bouncing back at me. The question hung in the air like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore.

All I could see was red. Blood everywhere, blurring my vision.

It was everywhere—pooling around my shoes, seeping into the cracks of the sidewalk. The rain mixed with it, turning it into a slick, sticky mess that spread farther and farther, as if it wanted to swallow me whole. I felt like I was drowning in it.

My sister, with that strange, relieved look on her face, lay in a pool of blood.

I stared down. Could barely breathe. My shoes were soaked, the laces stained dark. For a second, it felt like the ground was tilting, like I might fall right through the pavement and disappear. The world spun, and I grabbed the railing to steady myself.

Terror. Confusion. My whole body shook.

My knees buckled. I felt cold all over, even though it was the middle of summer. Summer, but I was freezing. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and my teeth started to chatter. I could barely hear anything over the pounding of my heart in my ears.

The next moment, I threw myself onto my sister’s body, clinging to any hope I had left. My hands shook as I pressed my fingers under her nose.

I was frantic. Searching for any sign of life. My fingers fumbled, slipping on her cold skin. I whispered her name over and over, praying for a miracle that wouldn’t come. The world narrowed to just the two of us.

“No... no breath.”

It barely came out as a whisper. But it felt like a scream. I tried again, hoping I’d made a mistake, but the truth was undeniable. My hands started to go numb.

My hand fell weakly onto her cheek. I stroked her face, just like she used to do for me.

Her skin was already losing its warmth. I brushed her hair away from her forehead, smoothing it down the way she used to for me when I was scared as a kid. My thumb lingered at her temple, wishing I could turn back time.

Then my brother-in-law’s voice cut through, grating in my ear.

He let out a scoff. “What bad luck!”

The words felt like a slap in the face. I turned, barely believing what I’d heard. My jaw dropped, and for a split second, I was too stunned to even react. Who says that, right here, right now?

Bad luck? I looked at him, dazed. He seemed completely unconcerned, as if the person who died wasn’t his wife—not even a stranger—but an object, like a broken mug.

He actually looked annoyed. Like my sister’s death was just another inconvenience. He scuffed the ground with his shoe, avoiding my gaze, and mumbled something under his breath. My stomach turned.

Too late. I’d already seen the real him. When he saw me looking at him, he tried to rein in his expression, quickly waving his hands.

He plastered on a fake look of concern, but I’d already seen behind the mask. He fidgeted, glancing nervously at the gathering crowd.

“Don’t look at me like that. Your sister’s death has nothing to do with me. She insisted on going up to the roof to hang laundry.”

He spoke louder, as if trying to convince the onlookers more than me. His voice wavered, but he stood his ground, arms folded tight across his chest, like a shield.

That was it. The fury exploded.

I felt my whole body tense, ready to snap. My vision tunneled, and all I could see was him. Every muscle in my body screamed for release.

“Do you really think I’m a damn idiot?” I roared. “Who the hell hangs laundry outside in the rain?”

My voice thundered, echoing across the courtyard. Heads turned. Some people stepped back, startled by the raw anger in my words. Let them stare. I needed him to hear every word.

I turned, fists clenched so tightly my veins bulged. Ready to charge.

My knuckles were white. One more word, and I’d snap.

Just then, a shrill, domineering woman’s voice rang out, sharp and loud, cutting through the chaos. I recognized it instantly—my sister’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Hargrove.

I braced myself. She always made everything worse.

Weirdly, I felt relieved. At least someone else remembered my sister.

Hope. Gone as fast as it came. For a second, I thought maybe she’d mourn too, that someone else would stand with me in my grief.

But then the old woman wailed, “That wretched woman wanted to die, fine—but why’d she have to take my precious grandson with her? He was the only one to carry the Hargrove name! How am I supposed to go on now?”

Her words stung. She didn’t mention my sister’s name, didn’t even call her daughter-in-law—just that ‘wretched woman.’ Her face was twisted, red and blotchy, as she hurried over, clutching her purse so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He pulled her in close, whispering urgently in her ear. He clung to her, needing backup. The two of them formed a wall, shutting me out.

He showed no sadness at all, muttering under his breath, “Ma, don’t get worked up. Who knows whose kid that was? Good thing he’s dead. Saves me from raising someone else’s child.”

His words were cold, calculated. He barely moved his lips, but I heard every syllable. My hands shook with fury, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

She hesitated. For once, she sounded unsure. “Son, I did the math. He should be yours.”

But my brother-in-law just waved her off impatiently. “Should be? Come on. I’m still young. If I want more kids, I’ll have them. Simple as that. Sooner or later, you’ll get to hold a real grandson—your very own blood.”

He grinned, cocky and careless, like he was talking about a new car instead of a child. His words made my skin crawl. The old woman nodded, resigned, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

She crossed her arms and stared at the ground, lips pressed tight. They looked bored. Like this was just another hassle. I felt like I was watching a bad TV drama. Except this was real.

They showed their true colors right in front of me, as if I was powerless to resist—just a fresh college graduate, broke, with my only family just gone. To them, I was nobody.

I felt invisible. Like a chair in the corner. They didn’t see me as a threat—just some broke kid who’d keep his mouth shut. That realization lit a fire in me. No more silence.

I clenched my fists and slowly walked up to the pair. Time to do something.

I took a deep breath. Forced my hands to stop shaking. My heart pounded in my chest, but I kept my head high. I wasn’t going to let them walk all over me—not today.

“You ever hear the saying…?”

My voice was low, steady. I let the words hang, waiting for them to react. I could feel the curiosity buzzing all around me.

“What?”

They turned to me, brows furrowed, genuinely confused. For a moment, they seemed almost vulnerable, caught off guard by my sudden confidence. They had no idea what was coming.

I stared them down. Made sure they saw the anger in my eyes. I wanted them to know I wasn’t afraid anymore.

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

I shrugged, letting the words drop like a stone. There was nothing left to say. Actions would speak louder.

When I was close enough, I reached down for my belt. My hands shook as I unbuckled it. The buckle cracked through the air as I lashed it across my brother-in-law’s back.

The sound echoed like a gunshot. People gasped. I didn’t care. All I saw was red. Rage. Grief. Boiling over. The belt felt heavy in my hand, but I swung it again, harder.

Smack!

He yelped and jumped, but I didn’t give him a chance to fight back. The belt swung again and again, cutting through the air with a sharp snap, tracing arcs as it landed on him. Driven by rage, I put every ounce of strength into each blow. Didn’t care about the consequences.

Each strike landed with a satisfying thud. The buckle bit into his shirt, leaving angry welts. I barely registered his screams—I was lost in the rhythm, the release. The crowd backed away, shocked into silence.

With just the first strike, his white shirt was already stained with red-brown marks. After a few more, the belt itself was streaked with blood. I barely recognized my own hands.

Blood spattered my hands, the belt, even my jeans. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Every swing poured out years of pain.

Right there at the entrance, with everyone watching, I whipped my brother-in-law until he stumbled and spun. He dodged left and right, never daring to stop.

He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, trying to escape. But I was relentless. The crowd parted, giving us space. No one tried to stop me—not yet.

My sister’s mother-in-law tried to step in a few times, but seeing the belt slicing through the air, she shrank back in fear, stamping her feet, panicked, helpless. In the end, she could only scream.

Her voice was shrill. Panicked. She hovered at the edge, wringing her hands, but didn’t dare get too close. I could see the fear in her eyes.

“You little bastard! Just like your sister—both worthless! You should’ve died with her!”

The words stung, but they only fueled my anger. I turned. Let her see the fury in my eyes. She flinched, taking a step back.

I paused, a twisted smile curling my lips.

I let the moment hang. Let her feel it. For once, I was in control. I wanted her to know what it felt like to be powerless.

“Old lady, if you hadn’t said anything, I’d have forgotten all about you. I was so focused on beating your son, I almost forgot to give you your share!”

My voice dripped with sarcasm. I raised the belt. Made sure she saw what was coming.

I swung the belt at both of them. Didn’t want her to feel left out.

She shrieked, ducking behind her son. I didn’t care. The belt cracked through the air, landing wherever it could. I wanted them both to feel a fraction of my pain.

Some busybody in the crowd had already called the cops. Amid their cries, I heard the distant wail of sirens.

The sound grew louder, cutting through the chaos. People started to back away, murmuring nervously. I dropped the belt, breathing hard, sweat pouring down my face.

I was taken away. My sister was sent to the funeral home.

The cops cuffed me, read me my rights, and shoved me into the back of a cruiser. I barely heard a word. My mind was somewhere else—already with my sister, wherever she was.

For some reason, neither of them pressed charges.

Maybe they were too ashamed, or maybe they didn’t want to air their dirty laundry in public. Either way, I didn’t lose a minute of sleep over it. Let them stew.