"I'm Not Crazy"

XXIV.

The word truth isn't subjective. It's just another word for providing the facts. I've not tried to mislead you about my ability to tell the story as it happened. I told you that I've been dishonest. I've made it clear that I was a documented liar. This is the only time I'm going to promise that everything I'm telling you is rooted in facts. This is the real story.

I'm going to tell the truth and then you're maybe going to think differently of me. I think I deserve that. It's okay.

It was Christmas Eve and our parents weren't home. Matthew was supposed to be watching me. He'd been told to make sure I got dinner. I didn't think he was going to feed me, but then he called me into the living room. All of those things have been true. I didn't lie about any of it.

Then I saw the gun.

I previously said that I was not inherently afraid of the gun because I'd seen it plenty before. I said that I was not afraid of Matthew in that way, and so the gun confused me instead of alarming me. I told you I simply hesitated in the doorway.

I lied.

When I saw the gun, I recoiled because Matthew was pointing it directly at me. His eyes were intense and hard and full of a swirling darkness. I backed up several feet, stumbling in the process. I cowered behind the doorframe.

Matthew laughed and said, "Don't be a baby, Charles. I was just joking. It's not even loaded."

I peeked around the doorway again. The gun was now held loosely at his side. He was smiling. His tired sunken eyes seemed marginally lighter in a tiny way.

"Come here," he said.

I walked into the room because I was just a child. I did trust him in a far away part of myself. Matthew was the other forgotten kid in the home. He was my ally. He left porch lights on and called truces with me every night.

I stopped a few feet away because trust could only carry my feet so far. It was also because I knew better. I had learned enough to be wary. I could only hide behind those niceties for so long. I knew things I'd never told you about; things that rooted my feet to the ground in that moment with space between us to spare.

"You shouldn't be playing with that," I said. I was a child who did not understand that teenagers did not play.

"What?" Matthew laughed again, in a darkened way that made the hair on the back of my neck feel tall and stiff. He lifted the gun again aimlessly. "This thing?"

"Yeah," I said. "Franklin and mom wouldn't be letting you do that. My mom always tells you to put it away."

Matthew nodded with a slightly amused look. "What are you going to do about it?"

My stomach twisted some. I felt a frozen fear in the pit of my gut. Matthew had asked me that question more than once. He'd taunted me with it during multiple bouts of his violence and his sins. I said nothing because I was powerless, and because no ideas for meaningful responses worked their way into my thoughtless mind.

"What would you do if I shot myself?" Matthew said in a slight taunt. Mischief floated in. "What would you do if I decided to shoot you?"

"It's not loaded," I said.

"How do you know?"

"They don't let you load it in the house."

Matthew turned the gun over and rested the tip under his own chin. "Wanna bet?"

I took a step back again. "Don't do that."

Matthew dropped the gun from his chin and looked at me. His gaze had turned sinister and curious all at once. He looked me up and down like he was evaluating things.