Page 81 of The Story of You

“Nothing. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Please, let me go.” I didn’t recognize my own voice. I trembled as the suffocating helplessness smothered me.

He approached me and I stilled, holding my breath. His hand slid into my hair—my short hair. It was long on top but shaved at the sides. He squeezed until the roots complained. I distracted myself by listening for Oliver who had gone quiet.

“You belong to me, Silas. I amneverletting you go.” He squeezed harder. “Grow this out. I told you I liked your hair long. Don’t ever let me see it this length again.”

Father tossed my head away aggressively.

He hadn’t done much of anything, but I felt like taking a shower. When he left, I did, after checking on Oliver who’d cried himself to sleep on the floor.

* * *

Silas

Ifroze, terror-stricken, and stopped looking for Darius.

Father and I were on the precipice of something that had been building. Something I’d ignored and hoped would go away or that it wasn’t real.

Feeling I’d upset the fragile balance between us, I sought to equalize it. I tried harder. Made better meals. Cleaned deeper. Initiated conversation. Smiled. I racked my brain for every conceivable way to please him.

It wasn’t enough. He drove his point home further.

A week after that incident, he arrived home with a man in a brown tweed jacket with grey elbow patches and plastic, black-rimmed glasses. He had a leather briefcase. “Silas, this is the psychologist I told you about, Dr. Allen.” He hadn’t told me about a psychologist. “He’s here to evaluate you. See if you need to be hospitalized.”

I caught his lofty air and every bit of threat he intended. He took Oliver from me, despite his protests as my blood ran cold. He was throwing down a gauntlet and I would have to tread carefully, more than ever before.

“Normally I’d have you come to my office, Silas, but I was happy to keep this private at your father’s request. It’s better for this kind of stuff to be off the record if possible.”

Father’s colleague. Someone he could manipulate or who owed him several favors. I was royally screwed.

It crossed my mind that if I were hospitalized, at least I’d be away from him but that gave him who knows how long to do what with Oliver. Knowing him, he wasn’t about to have me hospitalized anyway. This was a display of power. With the snap of his fingers, he could have me tossed away, or tarnish my reputation beyond repair. He wanted me to realize how much control he had. For me to recognize it.

And give him what he wanted.

“Your father tells me you can’t move past your brother’s disappearance. Why don’t you tell me about that?”

Yeah. Right.

I glanced toward the kitchen where Father had gone with Oliver. Tempted as I was to say what I knew to be true, Father was right, I would just look crazy. I had to come up with something else. My “play nice and behave story”.

It was my first elaborate lie—one that wasn’t of my father’s design—and I took it on like a challenge. A Randall challenge.

“Yes, sir. I can’t seem to move past it. I keep having dreams about him. He’s in an all-boys home, he can’t call home, and all I’ve got left of him is a note with his blood and tears stained into the blurred blue lines…”

After further questioning, he determined I should see a therapist regularly and get more sleep. He gave Father a name to call. “But if you need my further assistance, let me know.”

Code for, if my father wanted to take “other” action, to let him know and it would be done.

When he left, I confronted Father, sitting at the table with Oliver in my lap. “What do you want?” My voice was a new, harder one. Like his when he made deals on the phone. It was a Randall trait and I was coming into it.

“You. I want you.”

I shivered. It was still hard to hear, even though Iknew. I tapped my fingers on the table.One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.Thinking. “Why?” I immediately numbed myself. It was too horrible to acknowledge in any real way. I had to pretend it was happening to someone else.

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because you look like her? Or maybe it’s because you fascinate me.”

“I’m your son.”