Page 2 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

I tiptoe over to the stove and hit the switch for the dim light shining down from the dusty hood right above the range. I squint at the sudden brightness, instantly turning my back to the source.

My stomach growls, aching miserably, as I survey the messy kitchen. Dirty dishes are stacked in multiple piles, with two broken coffee mugs, and months worth of newspaper scattered across the counter space.

With a heavy sigh, I turn away from the disaster and walk over to the fridge. My fingers brush against the sticky handle, and I cringe a little as I pull it open and gaze inside.

There’s a single pizza box.

“Thank God,” I mumble, reaching for it and setting it down on the round kitchen table behind me. When I open the box, my heart breaks to find nothing but a single half-eaten pizza crust.

Tears pool at the corners of my eyes, and my head throbs a little harder.

I can’t do this another night. I’m pretty sure my stomach ulcer is actively bleeding—if the sharp, stabbing pain is anything to go by.

If I take another dose of medication on an empty stomach, I’ll end up back in the hospital.

I can’t recover from a rebound migraine without some food.

For a neurological disorder, migraines sure are hard on the body. Back when I first became sick, Mom brought me to a neurologist. The specialist made sure I knew how important it was to stay hydrated and eat nutritious food.

My dad either forgot about me and my condition, or he stopped caring after Mom died.

He barely speaks to me, let alone does anything to help me manage it.

He stopped refilling my preventative medication well over a year ago, and only buys over-the-counter painkillers because drinking gives him headaches.

The neurologist told me and my mom that my migraines would be at their worst during puberty, and she wasn’t kidding. The hormonal fluctuations meant I was having three to four attacks most weeks.

The doctor assured me that in my case, my hormones leveling out and balancing into adulthood would mean fewer attacks, as long as I stayed on top of my treatment plan. I held onto those words, using them to anchor me. They were a lighthouse on the darkest night during my worst days.

I wanted to take my medication, but I couldn’t afford them without Dad’s help.

It took everything in me to stay on top of school and my homework, and thankfully I had the support of a great school system helping me graduate this year. A school that really stepped up after Mom died, to make sure my future wasn’t ruined by my family’s tragedy.

Staring at the empty pizza box, I resign myself to pestering my dad about maybe ordering another.

The throbbing ache in my head is still overpowering the sharp burn in my belly, but if I’m going to take another dose of medication and get back in bed, I really need food to go with it.

I’d like to eat before the nausea has a chance to get worse, even if I hold my food down just long enough to get the painkillers into my system.

If the aura part of the attack is a warning sign, then the headache that follows is an alarm that tells me I need to eat, drink and take my pills as soon as possible .

The other symptoms follow within an hour. Nausea, numbness in my hands and face, vision loss, and the loss of my ability to speak; all of this and more are what happens next, keeping me trapped in bed until the attack finally ends.

I abandon the kitchen and head for the living room, where my dad is usually camped out. I approach the large couch from behind, the outline of my father silhouetted by the bright glow of the TV in front of him.

Dad used to watch home videos of my mom for days on end, but now he jumps between the news and the same sitcom reruns.

The scent of urine hits me square in the face, and I swallow against a violent gag.

“Dad?” I call out, hoping not to startle him. “Are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer me, so I try again, a little louder this time. “Dad, can we order some pizza?”

I sigh when he still doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s either passed out, or refusing to engage with me. I’m not sure which one is worse, considering how angry he gets whenever I have to wake him up.

I circle around the couch to stand in front of him, rubbing at my eyes to clear my vision.

Shock hits me like a fist to the chest, and my heart begins racing like I just stepped foot onto a battlefield. The rush of blood through my body has pain flaring to unbearable extremes as I stare at my dad in disbelief .

He’s slumped over where he sits at the center of the couch. His yellowed eyes stare blankly ahead, his mouth agape. He’s still breathing, but it sounds so wrong—laboured and wet.

I know that sound. My mom made it too, just before she died. A death rattle.

My knees buckle as my body gives out, and I crash down to my knees on the carpet in front of him. Terror and grief slam into me and steal the breath from my lungs. “Dad? Dad!” I scream his name, but he doesn’t respond.

I grab his phone from the table in front of the couch, my hands shaking so violently I can barely dial. The screen blurs as I punch in 911, and when the operator answers, asking me to choose between police and ambulance, my hysterical voice manages to shout “ambulance” down the line.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” the operator asks, maddeningly calm.

It takes everything in me to force myself to my feet. My legs are jelly, and my pain has only grown stronger. “M-my d-dad,” I stammer, the words catching in my throat. “He’s d-dying. Liver f-failure. He’s d-dying.”

“Is he breathing?”

Tears burn in my eyes, and I almost drop the phone from how hard I’m shaking.

Not again. Please, not again.

“Yes,” I choke out. “But it’s a death rattle.”

“A what?”

“A death rattle,” I repeat, fighting to stay coherent. “It’s the sound people make when they’re dying. ”

I learned that from the hospice nurse while Mom was actively dying. One of several terms I heard them speak in hushed voices, words I never wanted to hear or use ever again.

Tears are streaming down my cheeks, carving hot trails across skin that has gone ice-cold. Even my teeth are chattering—from fear, from the migraine, from the sheer weight of it all. I clutch the phone like it’s a lifeline, my raft in tumultuous waters.

“Please,” I beg the operator, my voice cracking. “Please hurry. I can’t lose my dad too.”

“They’re almost there, honey,” she assures me. “Just make sure your front door is open.”

I hear the distant wail of sirens, growing louder and closer with every passing second. I turn and stumble toward the front door, weaving around piles of junk like a soldier in a minefield, each step sending spikes of pain through my skull.

I unlock the door and fling it open, ignoring the way it bounces off the wall with enough force to leave a dent. I don’t stop to check the damage, it’s just another bruise on a house that used to be my safe place.

I rush back to my dad, my eyes locked on his chest, praying for movement. He takes a deep breath, his ribs rising in a desperate swell.

The phone slips from my fingers. My arms fall uselessly at my sides, heavy with the weight of my world as it crashes down around me .

I watch, wide-eyed and trembling, as my father lies deathly still for one impossibly long minute… and then he gasps his final breath.

Everything inside of me shatters into a thousand irreparable pieces.

My tears are flowing so fast that my vision blurs, my father’s face warped and wavering—burned into my memory like a smudged photograph I’ll never unsee. I blink hard, trying to clear the image, but it only manages to sharpen the horror.

His body slumps deeper into the couch, overtaken by an eerie stillness. Whatever life was once shining through his eyes has vanished.

I’m breathless as I stare at my dad, my lungs refusing the draw in the breath I desperately need. Pink-tinged foam clings to the corners of his dry, cracked lips. A few drops of blood stain the curve of his swollen belly, his grey shirt riding up and exposing the distended flesh beneath.

Red and white lights flicker across the living room, spilling through the windows in fractured beams. The sound of someone screaming accompanies the loud wail of the sirens, and I wonder who it is making that terrible noise as the medics storm into the house.

I focus on their grim faces as they grab my father and pull him down to the floor. One drops to his knees and begins chest compressions, while the other pops open a case and starts attaching leads to my father’s lifeless body .

I stare at my father, grief and misery raging through me like a hurricane, as the medics try and pull him back from the void. A void that I know will never let him go.

A different medic, an older man with a greying mustache, appears in front of me. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him. Whoever is screaming really needs to stop.

His gloved hands gently frame my face, pulling my gaze from my father’s body to his own. His eyes are kind, they remind me of the colour of the whiskey my dad was obsessed with.

My dad is dead.

This can’t be real.

“I need you to stop screaming so we can figure out what happened,” the medic says, his tone firm but not unkind. His hands squeeze slightly, and pain blooms across my skull in protest. I blink, trying to orient myself.

I lift a trembling hand to my mouth—and find it wide open.

It’s me. I’m the one screaming.

I shut my mouth and press my palm over my lips, smothering the sound.

“What happened here?” he asks again, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos.

I stare at him, still trembling. Nausea twists my stomach, and the left side of my face is going numb.

Even with my father lying dead beside me, the migraine won’t let up. A disordered brain doesn’t pause for grief .

“I’ve been in bed with a migraine,” I manage, my voice thick and slurred as the electrical storm behind my eyes rages on. “I found him like this.”

“You’re doing great. Can you tell me if he has any disabilities or illnesses? Is he on any drugs or alcohol?” the medic asks. He keeps his hands firm on my face, guiding my gaze back to his when I try to glance toward the sudden beeping behind me.

I fight to focus, but my condition is deteriorating by the second. “He… he’s in liver failure from drinking sever day. Every day.” I quickly correct myself as the wrong word slips out.

“Thank you,” he says gently. “We’re going to try and help him. Do you need medical attention?”

I nod, the motion clumsy. His voice is calm and commanding, grounding me in the moment. It sounds like the kind of voice superheroes are supposed to have.

“M-Medication,” I mumble. “F-ffforr… uhhhh… migraine…” I fumble for the words, as the aura hits my temporal lobe, and language starts to break apart on my tongue.

The medic nods. “Come with me. Let’s get you outside and into the ambulance.”

He reaches for his radio, calling in a request for a second unit. While he speaks, I glance back at my father.

I watch, breath caught in my throat, as the one performing CPR falls back on his heels, sweat shining on his brow. The second takes over without hesitation, and their eyes meet. It’s a silent exchange. He shakes his head, his lips drawn into a tight line, and the other nods in agreement .

He’s gone. My dad is dead. The only person I had left in this world… is gone.

That’s the last thought I have before darkness swarms around me from the edges of my vision, swallowing the light, the noise, and the pain.

And then, nothing. Just the silence of oblivion as I fall.