Page 59 of All the Things We Buried

Then she appeared. My stepmother. Standing in the doorway, watching in silence, wearing some deep red cape like she’d dressed for a ritual. And she laughed. Shelaughedas Dad beat Dorian numb.

“Run,” Dorian whispered.

“Run!” he shouted this time, shoving me free.

I stood, shaking. Looked back one last time. Then ran. Brushed past Dad. Past Dorian. Toward the door. Toward her. She didn’t even try to stop me.

I rushed down the stairs, my soul calling for him. Tears streamed without permission. I couldn’t keep going—I couldn’t run. I stopped.

And then I turned. I ran back.

Before I even reached the front door, she grabbed me. Her nails dug into my arm as she pulled me away. Over her shoulder, I saw him. Dorian’s body is on the floor. Still. Not moving.

“No!” I screamed, shoving her with everything I had.

But then Father appeared behind me. Without a word, he seized me by the arm and dragged me toward the attic door. I fought. I kicked. I begged. He didn’t listen.

He shoved me through and slammed the door behind me, locking it. I pounded my fists against the wood, again and again, hard enough to shake the walls, hard enough to wake the dead. But no one came.

No one came for me.

No one came for him.

EIGHTEEN

LENORE

18 years old

Iwas curled on a dusty blanket in the attic when I heard the door creak open. Slow footsteps. The sound of someone dragging themselves across the floor. I turned my head, and there he was.

His face was a mess of bruises and dried blood. He clung to the final two steps of the staircase like they were the only things keeping him alive. Rage flared in my chest.

“Dorian!” I cried, scrambling to his side.

I tried to lift him, but his body was too heavy, too broken. He collapsed against the stairs, barely conscious.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice cracked and trembling. “I’m sorry I’m weak.”

“No,” I whispered, pleading, “no, you’re not.”

I knelt beside him, arms trembling as I tried to lift him again. It was no use. His black shirt clung to the raw, bleeding wounds across his back, each stripe carved in by my father’s belt. I counted them. One hundred and twelve.

Tears blurred my vision. My hands, shaking, reached to peel the shirt away from his skin.

He hissed, then screamed. I screamed with him.

He grabbed my wrist, voice choked in agony. “Stop. Please, stop.”

But I couldn’t. I kept going, even as he sobbed, until the shirt fell away and the full damage was laid bare.

My palms, slick with his blood, pressed to my lips as I collapsed against him.

“What did he do to you?” I cried.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, trying to smile, trying to comfortme.

“Come,” he said with a faint smile. “I wanted to give you a present.”