As It Was (COMPLETED) (wattys2023)

Face The Fear

When I was seven, my father took Clark, Frankie, and I out into the middle of the woods on our camping trip and showed us how to shoot a gun for the first time. Eight-year-old Clark had been desperate for our father's approval and had begged to keep trying until he had gotten it right.

Clark killed his first rabbit that night.

The sick, sadistic smile he'd worn as my father and Frankie praised him was an image that had never left me. Over the years it had found its way to the back of my mind, but I thoroughly believe it was what kept that cold, tight knot of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach for the next ten years.

As I stared across the table at the duffel bag full of guns on the seat that had once been occupied by Clark, my hand continuously clenched and released against my jeans to keep my body from reacting to the signals my brain was shooting it at rapid speed.

"Alan, was it necessary to bring those to the table?" Mom broke the monotony as she set dad's plate on his black linen placemat.

My father, oblivious to the anxiety the very thought of what was contained inside the bag was doing to me, pointed his fork in my mother's direction. "Alistair is coming to pick them up."

That should have eased my anxiety, but it didn't even touch at the racing of my heart and sweating of palms.

"Everly," Mom set my plate before me as she eyed me in concern. "How has school been?"

I opened my mouth, then slowly shut it as she dragged herself back to her chair across the table. My silence didn't cause any disruption to their everyday routine; it'd been like this for the last four months. Mom would sit at the opposite end of the table from Dad, occasionally trying to break the silence with small talk that would drift off into the air without being remembered the next evening. Dad would sit to my left, aggressively cutting his food, only remembering we were present at the table with him when I'd stand to leave.

Finally, catching my mom blinking tears from her eyes, I broke the silence.

"My art teacher thinks I should apply for RISD."

A tension eased its way into the cold air between the three of us.

"The art school?" Dad questioned, apprehensiveness in his voice.

Though not a single molecule of my being thought it was a good idea to look in his direction, I also knew without a doubt it'd be a bad idea not to.

He had set both his fork and knife down and crossed his hands over his placemat, his body shifted in my direction. His thick, dark brows had furrowed with the curving downward of his lips.

"Yes." I croaked.

He remains silent for a few seconds, then says, "Have you applied to any other schools? Everly, you've got an incredible academic record. You could can into an Ivy without a problem."

I kept my eyes on him, awaiting a full lecture before I responded.

"In case you forgot, I share the same last name and bloodline as the twins who murdered thirty kids." I said without as much as a waver in my voice. "I don't think Ivies are going to be accepting me with open arms, Dad."

Both of my parents flinched hearing the words; times like these I wondered if they fully comprehended what happened, or if they were possibly still in denial over it.