THAT FIRST BREAK (Broken Redemption Prequel 1)

Chapter 14

Lucas

The strangest part about death is our inability to fathom its finality. Even as we understand that death will someday come for us all, it's still hard to wrap one's mind around the idea that a person—who once had a home, a family, and a place in society—can cease to exist. All the threads that connected them to this world cut in an instant, leaving behind fragmented pieces of a former life.

According to the therapist, Uncle George forced us to see, our burden now is to pick up what remains of those jagged remnants, so we can keep their memory alive and use those pieces to build a future without them. But how? How are we supposed to go on when, just six days ago, they were as essential to our well-being as the air we breathe? How is one expected to pick up those damn pieces when, with each attempt, the jagged edges cut through the flesh of your heart?

Dropping my head to my arms, I fight back the tears I refuse to let fall. I deserve this. The pain. The anguish. The guilt that's got me wasting away like a parasite desperate to consume its host. After what I've done, sitting here absorbing the burn in my throat, in my eyes, in my fucking chest, this is how I honor them. My version of picking up the remnants of their lives by depicting and enduring every bit of the pain they may have felt at the end. This is my penance.

Handshake.

"Your parents were the most wonderful people. I'm so sorry for your loss. If you kids need anything, and I mean anything, please stop by and see me."

Nod, and then, "Thank you for coming."

Handshake.

"Oh, my dear boy, I'm so, so sorry for your loss. Your mother was the most amazing woman and your father... God did he love her."

Nod, and then, "Thank you for coming."

And round and round it went. For hours, my sister and I stood together, forced to endure everyone else's pain. Their tears. Their pitying stares. Meaningless platitudes and well-meaning words that did nothing but fan our grief into a raging inferno.

Embree's dad, our self-proclaim sentinel, stood by our side through the funeral service and burial. Amid tragedy, the meek and unassuming man morphed into a watchful and fierce protector. As he promised, he spent the week sharing in our grief, and walking us through the endless maze of coordinating my parent's "end-of-life celebration." That's what the funeral director called it, but based on the somber mood of those in attendance, nothing about today felt like a celebration.

Leaning my head back against the brick wall, I look up toward the bright blue sky. White fluffy clouds hang above, as a bird of prey glides through the air in a circular pattern. The treetops, heavy with the green leaves of summer, sway in the breeze, emitting the swishing calm that not long ago would have filled me with a sense of peace. Today though—the surrounding beauty, the tranquility that coats the air—it does nothing but stoke the rage and resentment I have toward a universe that continues to turn even as my world has stopped spinning.

Then, as if that cruel realization wasn't enough, the flowery scent of the rose bushes takes me back to that god-awful moment when Jenny and I said our final goodbyes.

It was Uncle George's idea. The plan was to give Jenny and me a few minutes alone with our parents and, given how lost we felt, neither of us knew whether to agree or object. Regardless, nothing could have prepared us for the sight of two mahogany caskets displayed at the front of the room. The smiling faces of our parents sat upon easels behind each of the caskets to identify where they lay. Not even the white blooms that cascaded like a blanket over the top of the caskets were enough to hide the wreckage that's now our reality. A reality that slammed into us violently. Mercilessly, to the point, all we could do was weep.